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rinwellisathing · 7 months ago

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It's A Thankless Job: Part 12

Halsin preferred to give his partners space when they needed it, a request wasn't even necessary, if they chose not to come by or contact him for a while, he would simply respect that decision and push his mind to assume the best. Years of anti-anxiety practice and coping mechanisms made it easier, though he couldn't fully erase the hurt. In Sentry's case, the hurt was compounded by worry for the younger man. He had shown himself to be impulsive, mercurial, and there was still something he wasn't telling Halsin, the druid knew. He would never pry, of course, but that little inkling of concern still scratched at his brain. He wasn't one for social media, normally, he tended to prefer the outdoors or quiet creative pursuits such as sketching or whittling, as the multitude of beautiful carvings and painstaking anatomical sketches of plants and animals around his office showed, but he did have a simple account he didn't check or use much just in case a patient's people needed to contact him and couldn't get him on the phone. The account had very few friends since Halsin didn't really update it, never posted, and only really answered messages, the list showing only a few names: Jaina Thalassia, Gale Dekarios, Nettie and Rath's accounts were present on his friends list as they'd insisted...He looked up to the search function and with a deep breath, did something he'd never done before...He decided to snoop, even if just a little in a way most might argue was completely normal. 'Sentry Ojeda' he typed in, and quickly found the profile he was looking for, the picture was Sentry posing in a finely embroidered suit on the arm of someone whose face and body were out of frame. The profile didn't have much available publicly, a few pictures and a friends list. Halsin found himself hovering over the friend request button, telling himself most people did this, it was perfectly normal, only someone uninterested in technology as he was would consider this strange. Hells, wasn't it more strange that he'd slept with Sentry, shared so many conversations with him, even loved him, and hadn't befriended him online yet? He inhaled deeply and clicked the 'send request' button. In seconds, the request was accepted and a message popped up. Sentry: Heeeeeey sorry I worried you <3 Which, like, I'm guessing I did because you don't seem like a social media kind of guy? You: Ha...A bit, I have to confess. Are you alright? Sentry: Oh yeah, just really busy. Got tons on my plate rn, yknow? World's best big brother, churning out content, clients, murders.... Halsin quirked a brow at that, leaning in and trying to think of a response before he was interrupted by another pink. Sentry: Just kidding about that last one... The joke was, perhaps, in poor taste after the recent rash of killings throughout the city, but then again Sentry WAS in his twenties, Halsin had to realize his humor was likely to tend towards edgy. Sentry: Unless?

The druid rolled his eyes. Sentry: Nah, I'm seriously just kidding, for real. You: I see, I didn't know you had siblings. It's good of you to care for them. Sentry: Nah, I only really have to worry about the one because she's still a teenager, everyone else is older than me actually and we all pitch in, so like don't paint me as a hero or something. You: Fair enough. Do you want to go for another walk in the woods together?” Sentry: Oooh, the risk of getting ravaged by a bear??? Or ravished, maybe? Halsin paused a moment, thinking intently about his reply. Every time he started to type something out, however, he found himself backspacing it, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in concern at the thought of how each thing could be misinterpreted. Any joke could come across as a slight, appearing overly enthusiastic might make Sentry feel like it was just about sex, more like a client than a partner. Trying to be romantic, however, might make Sentry feel undesirable, like Halsin was deflecting or turning down the chance to fuck him. He ran a hand back through his hair and inhaled deeply. There was also the problem of addressing Sentry in the reply, a pet name too romantic might make him feel that things were moving too fast, just his name might make it feel cold and impersonal, This would have been so much easier in person... Finally, he took one more deep breath and replied: You: I'm certainly open to suggestions. Sentry: Cool, cool...Tomorrow night? You: Sounds good.

--- After closing out of his chat with Halsin, Sentry noticed a message from Orin and opened it, scanning the contents. Images of absolutely lazy, poorly done kills. More than that, the crime scenes were decorated with what could almost have been Bhaalist symbols except for a few details missing. Details a Bhaalist should be aware of, but an outsider wouldn't consider. Baby Sis: Copy-cats, slaughter-kin! Copy-cats skitter-slinking about our territory! They pry and prod, scuttling about and mocking our work. Me: Oh? Well, baby sister, let's look at the positives. Gary would have wanted us to, after all? See that blood red lining: Haven't they just provided us with an excellent crop of new victims? Baby Sis: Yes...send them a message. Slit and stab these pretenders. Make mince-meat of them. Me: Think you can find them if Gabraela and Jackal help out? Meanwhile, I'll grab Tomi and we'll meet you at the shed in the back of the cemetery.

Baby Sis: Time for a Blood-Bath!( This was followed by a gif of a deranged cartoon character splattered in blood dancing manically)

Sentry closed his phone and smirked. Oh, tonight had just gotten interesting. He looked around the room he was currently in, a bedroom in a cozy little town home in the upper city and sat down on the rumpled bedding for a moment, taking in the blood spatter all across the walls, the saturated carpet beneath the cooling corpse. He casually swung his legs a moment and then stood, sauntering over to the closet. Eh, this guy had been about his height and build, and he didn't really feel like going home to change into something more appropriate to bother Tomi at work in. He chose a simple black suit and polished black shoes, grabbing a duffle bag from the closet floor for his own clothing. Thinking further, he looked over the dresser and began lifting the various perfume and cologne bottles, taking a sniff at each of them before finally settling on a very mild scent that was close enough to his usual patchouli, vetiver, and roses, a difficult combination to find. When he was properly dressed and smelling nice, he made his way out of the house through the back door and into the alley. Fel would be here to deal with the mess soon enough and Tomi's building was at least a thirty minute walk. --- “ So in the next quarter, I believe we will see a marked increase in our products' popularity. Our allergy medications will see an uptick in the fall, followed by many of our pain relievers in the winter. But most of all, our research shows anti-depressants increase in popularity too as it starts to get darker and colder out. Who knew?” The woman at the front of the board room appeared to be a middle aged half elf of Kozakuran descent, her black hair pulled back smartly with a tortoise shell clip, a few strands of grey framing her face. Her dark eyes were sharp and focused behind a pair of fashionable spectacles and her pants suit was immaculately pressed and made from fine, soft material. Sentry rolled his eyes. It was amazing how many people fell so easily for Tomi's little disguises. If they knew what hid beneath them, they might never sleep again. He shook off his distraction as the secretary, a pleasant, pretty young deep gnome gestured him forward, opening the door for him. “Ah, Miss Yubari, I'm so sorry to interrupt, your son is here to see you, he says there is a family emergency?” The young woman whispered softly, more of a stage whisper, really. “I see...Well, we can surely table this for now, after all, you know how important family is to me. How about this? By noon tomorrow, have some research of your own ready and we'll cater a lunch meeting. My treat.” Tomi's tone was gracious and maternal. So much so that her employees couldn't help but nod their agreement and murmur well wishes. “Hope things are alright, Akiko” “Take all the time you need, Miss Yubari.” “We all know you'd allow the same for us.” “Oh you are all just too kind. Thank you so much.” Tomi waved to them and excused herself from the room, approaching Sentry. “My sweet boy, what can mother help you with?” She fussed over him quite visibly while her employees were in ear shot and could see them, all while slowly guiding him towards the elevator.

Once they had left the building completely and were in Tomi's car, a sleek pink sports car with tinted windows, Tomi's body rippled and writhed, something horrid wriggling beneath her flesh as her body warped and twisted from the professional looking older woman to the glamous beauty she usually presented herself as. “Now, what was so important that you had to interrupt my meeting? I was this close to getting another spiked shipment out!” Tomi complained. “We have copy cat killers, big sis. Orin and the others are on capture duties, but we need to be there too when they get them to the shed, you know, so they really see the 'error of their ways'” Sentry explained. “Ugh....I hate it when those little pretenders get big ideas. You see, this is why that Murder Tribunal of Sarevok's was a stupid idea from the start! You know, in Kozakura, when we recruited unholy assassins, it was from the finest Bhaalist families who'd worshipped for centuries, not any edgy little so and so who could stab a stranger.” Tomi shook her head.

“I mean, honestly fair. Half of these cultists are tryhards anyway, I remember when Gary was alive, half the jobs he brought me along to before he started really training me were fixing these idiots' fuckups and getting rid of them after too many. That part was fun at least, though...And on that note...” He grinned as they pulled up to the back parking lot of the cemetery far behind where the manor stood, a large dingy shed halfway between the lot and the house. “I think tonight is going to be something very special, some real family bonding. Don't you?” Tomi nodded, skin rippling and churning again as her beautiful clothing became a simple beige smock and a pair of scrub pants, simple steel toed work shoes covering her feet and surgical gloves on her hands, the final touch was a surgical mask across her mouth and a simple blue scrunchie holding her long dark hair up in a ponytail. “Aww, you don't have special clothes, dear brother, you'll mess up that nice suit!” “I mean, I stole it from a client who was on the disposal list, so I don't think anyone is going to miss it.” He shrugged as he stepped out of the car, Tomi joining him with a little frown. “You should seriously consider dressing more presentably now that you're chosen, Sentry.” She chastised. “It just makes a nicer impression. Mother always said first impressions are important.” Sentry rolled his eyes. “And then you killed her, so I guess her advice wasn't all that important. And anyway, my clients like my clothes just fine, haven't had a dissatisfied customer yet.”

The two continued along the path up to the shed, opening the doors and entering. Jackal and Gabraela were already standing there, Gabraela in her old battered Flaming Fist uniform, hair pulled back into a tight braid, Jackal dressed in his hunting clothes, grey hair tucked into a battled old cap. Orin practically skipped over to greet Sentry and Tomi, dressed in a pair of bloodied overalls and a T-shirt that was white when she left the house, her long hair pulled into a quick, messy bun. “Slaughter-kin! Welcome to the fun! These things went skitter-slinking through our territory trying to impress grandfather's murder-council.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Oh, but sadly the unworthy filth-things were found wanting.” She nodded towards three bound figures in chairs at the back of the shed. “Aww, so sad!” Tomi clasped her hands in mock sympathy. “well, waste not want not, yes?”

“Exactly. I think the sculpture garden could use some new pieces and I'm feeling really inspired lately.” Sentry agreed, sauntering forward. He looked down at the trembling figures before him with disdain. So common, so ordinary. A dwarven woman with red hair and eyes, a blonde haired green eyed elven girl probably around Orin's age, and finally a human man with brown hair and eyes, pasty skin slick with sweat. “Alright, you pitiful wannabes. You want to be Bhaalists so badly? Welcome to family bonding night. My name is Sentry Ojeda, you've already met my baby sister Orin. We'll be leading the fun.” He grinned, crossing the room to a work bench covered in various tools. “Oh, but don't worry, you'll get to know Tomi, Gaabii, and Jackal as well. Hells, by the end of tonight? We'll all be one big, happy family.” The failed initiates were trembling as they watched Sentry examine the various implements, holding them up so everyone in the room could see as he inspected the various blades, hammers, clamps, hooks, and drills. His expression remained thoughtful, brow furrowed in consideration, but beneath it all, he was hiding a nasty sense of excitement.

Meanwhile, his siblings were enjoying a moment with their prey. Gabraela stood stoic in the corner, arms folded across her chest, simply staring down at them silently. Orin made her way over to the dwarf and grinned widely in her face, her body cracking and twitching as she transformed slowly into her perfect mirror image. “Oh, it thought it could be slaughter-kin? It thought to stab and prod and poke its way into our family?” She wagged her finger as though at a naughty child. “But it didn't try very hard? No, no, no...tsk tsk...Its blood-offerings were so boring...so dull...Unimaginative.” She grinned wickedly, grabbing the woman by her long red hair and pulling a switchblade from the pocket of her overalls, running the blade down the side of her face, her smile widening unnaturally as the woman screamed in pain, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh hush now, shh shh shh!” Orin stroked her hair mockingly, licking blood from the side of her face. Tomi approached the man, tapping her chin and looking him over a moment. “Hmm...Oh! I recognize you! So sorry it took so long, but you've got such a forgettable face...” She giggled, ruffling his hair. “You're that tech guy on our client list. Aww, well, Sentry, I guess I owe you an apology! You satisfied this one quite a lot if he tried to join the family after meeting you.” She cooed teasingly to her brother before turning back towards her prey. “Gosh, I'm so sorry to say but...you really aren't his type. But don't worry! Tonight will be so, so special. The most intimate you've ever experienced!” She patted the man's shoulder, slinking around behind him, her fingertips tracing across his skin, the prickle of her long, sharp nails teasing every few seconds. The elf girl's eyes widened as Jackal approached her slowly like a wolf stalking its prey. He retrieved a cruel hunting knife from his boot and held it to her cheek, tilting her head from side to side. “Your skin's the only thing keeping you from lookin' like one of them prim matriarch bitches from back home...Maybe I should take it off you so as to make this sweeter.” He growled, bearing down on her as she closed her eyes and sniffled. “You fuckin' prissy little porcelain dolls think you're fit to join us and look at you...LOOK AT YOU! Flinching at the sight of a simple tool.” He sneered in disgust, spitting on the ground beside her. “Makes me fuckin' sick to my stomach.”

“Well, looks like everyone's chosen their kill for the night. Remember, if at any point your toy gets away, it's on you to bring them back....Oh, and if yours breaks early, no one else owes you a crack at theirs.” Sentry explained, stepping away from the table which was now expertly laid out with so many shiny playthings, glinting wickedly in the dim, dusty light of the shed's swaying ceiling bulb. “Oh slaughter-kin! Join me! My name-day is soon, we could make a hanging treat-vessel of it!” Orin approached eagerly, grabbing Sentry's hand in one hand and a sledge hammer in the other. Sentry grinned and grabbed one of his own, joining his sister. Jackal reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a small dart, careful to avoid the tip himself as he jammed it into the girl's arm. She yelped and wailed as he used the knife to cut her bindings. “You got a ten second head started, girlie, I suggest you start runnin'.” The Drow smirked, stepping back and gesturing to the door. The girl blinked and struggled to her feet as Jackal began to focus on his watch. Tomi approached the table and ran her hands over the tools, pondering carefully until her perfectly manicured fingers danced over a drill. Her red lips curled into a cruel smirk behind her mask and she looked to Gabraela. “Oh sister dear? Would you help me clear the table and clamp the specimen in place?” She batted her eyelashes at the tall Tiefling woman, who nodded silently and approached, lifting the bound human by his neck as Tomi expertly put the unused tools away.

Sentry grinned and gave a huge, sweeping theatrical bow to Orin before lifting the trembling, bound dwarf woman from her seat and lifting her up. He frowned, screwing up his face and thinking for a moment. “Hmm...I wonder.... Ah! Well, soon-to-be birthday girl, you are called Orin The Red, after all. So...why not?” He gave a sadistic little giggle and raised the woman's squirming body not quite high enough for the hook swing from the ceiling to catch the rope, instead digging it in between her shoulder blades and letting it sink into her flesh, laughing as Orin clapped and bounced eagerly up and down, all the while the woman was screaming hysterically, muffled by her gag. Her eyes rolled back, nostrils flaring, pain shooting through her body as Sentry stepped back, admiring his work. “Alright, you know the rules of the game, baby sis.” He grinned, taking off his tie and expertly fastening it around Orin's head, covering her eyes. “Now no peeking! That's cheating!” “Oh, alright slaughter-kin.” Orin chuckled as she raised the sledge hammer eagerly.

Sentry danced back a few paces to an old boom box on a stool in the corner and clicked it on, an energetic party anthem beginning to blast through the shed as Orin began swinging at the sobbing woman. The elven failed initiate gasped in horror as she heard the sounds coming from the shed, trying to hobble away faster into the misty woods of the cemetery. She couldn't hear a thing over the music, not footsteps, not night birds or insects, she had no way of knowing where her pursuer what coming from and she caught a whimper of despair in her throat as blood continued to issue from her wound, likely marking a trail behind her. It was hopeless, but what choice did she have? She felt her heart hammering in her chest as she pushed throught the plants and trees, desperate to find her way out.

Click...Click... Click...Click... The sound of pebbles falling on the ground, her eyes darted and her head turned this way and that as she tried to locate the source of the sound, she forgot herself and let out a wail of despair as she pushed on deeper into the dark woods. “Oh...Well, that's disappointing.” Tomi clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Ah well, better it happened to ours and not one of the ones who can't take a little disappointment.” Tomi giggled. “Right, Gaabii?” “Hmph...Still disappointing this one thought he could be one of us.” The tiefling woman shrugged, staring contemptuously down at the unmoving body on the table, his face gone stark white, blackened veins straining against the flesh. “It was one syringe, right?” She asked as she began to undo the leather straps she'd only just bound him in. “Yes, but in all fairness, I think I mixed this batch fairly strong...Mm...ah, well...I'll just intersperse it into the weaker batches. It'll be like a game!” Tomi squealed excitedly, clapping her hands together. “What fun.” All the while, slams of the sledge hammer hitting the wall on occasion or the sound of bones cracking and screams of pain echoed from the other side of the room as Sentry and Orin took turns swinging the hammer blindfolded at the dwarven woman, who was by now bleeding profusely from the hook piercing through her back. The screams began to die down as liquid trickled down her legs and her eyes went blank. “Aww, it gave us no flesh-treats from its skin-sack.” Orin pouted. “Hey, no problem, I'll bring her down and cut her open once Tomi frees up the work table. Besides, look at the way all those bones broke, it's beautiful, yeah?” Sentry asked, stepping back and admiring the work he and his sister had done. Orin paused a moment and then her face lit up with manic glee. The two stood in awe of their handiwork for a moment, Sentry slinging an arm around Orin's shoulder and pulling her in for a side hug. All four siblings turned around as a foot collided with the door, kicking it open with a loud BANG as Jackal entered, dragging a bound, bloodied sack behind him. “Hunt's over. Vapid little thing didn't put up much of a fight.” He spat, tossing the sack in the corner. “You two freaks can fight over parts for your little arts and crafts projects...” He nodded towards Sentry and Orin.

“Well, with that out of the way, guess a dedication to father is in order, right?” Sentry suggested. “Let me paint the sigil, slaughter-kin! Let me wield the gore-slick brush and call father to see our great work.” Orin danced eagerly on her tiptoes. Sentry thought a moment and nodded. “Sure, what the hells? Go nuts, kiddo.” He nodded towards the can of paint brushes on the work table. As Orin got to work painting the sigils, Gaabii and Jackal dragged the bodies over to where she stood. Tomi opened a small box under the work bench and pulled out the black and red robes, beginning to hand them out to her siblings as Sentry took his place at the head of the group. The siblings finished their work and knelt together in rows of two as Sentry dipped his fingers into the blood they'd spilled and passed through the group, marking each of his siblings with their bounty and then taking his place kneeling at the front of the group, marking his own face. The five of them bowed their heads in contemplation as they made their offering.

#baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #tiefling #oc #dark urge #durge #writing #oc: sentry ojeda #fanfic #OC: Jackal Silk #Drow #Halsin #halsin x durge #BG3 #BG 3 #Modern AU

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thepixelpenguin · 9 months ago

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Elementals

So... uh... I came up with these in a dream?

Well, okay, I came up with two of these in a dream (try to guess which two!) but more importantly I came up with the concept of elementals being like... these primordial entities, like eternal gods incarnate, with separate dominion over their element, but in the form of two 'siblings'. One, the feminine, represents the constructive qualities, and one, the masculine, represents the destructive qualities. Each of them, in their own way, has an interest in what life is doing in their world, specifically humans, which is why they have been anthropomorphised. These are merely the physical avatars they feel are most appropriate for their actions.

I imagined, which is to say dreamed, of this pantheon forced to cooperate on a journey around the globe to discover exactly what advances this new civilised species was making, and what, if anything, they should do about it, and along the way learning how to overcome and celebrate their differences, and respect the others' place in the world. Good stuff! I mean, IMAGINE the fables you could get out of that! Imagine the attitudes they'd hold towards us mortals, and the natural world! All I know is someone can make a story out of these and I just HAD to design them.

Why even use feminine and masculine at all? Well, because that's how I dreamed it! But also, it kinda reminds me of the way alchemy, and some ancient mythology, treats male and female as divine qualities with their own pros and cons of which only a balance is perfect. Plus, idk, something about the feminine being the bearers of life while the masculine are the opposite... seems right.

Why do they have nicknames? Because the puns are too good and I couldn't resist.

If you're wondering why the sketches suck it's because I thought I might bother to add colour one day, but right now... nah.

The Feminine Air "Skye" is based on a dancer, with her cyclone arms and tornado lower half below a cumulus build. Her cheeks always look puffed out, and her sort-of hair-bun is just a good contrast but appropriate for a dancer I suppose. Here she is doing a pirouette whilst paying absolutely no attention. She is generally quite carefree, energetic, unrestrained. She's just as fast and agile as her brother, and uncannily defies gravity for fun, but has no interest in following directions when it doesn't suit her. The only time she shows anything resembling discipline is when there's a life in danger, at which she'll rush to help through any path necessary.

The Masculine Air "Gale" is more athletic, like a sprinter, whose body somewhat follows the form of a toga, with arms which leave great trails somewhat resembling wings. Though he has a ridged brow and chin, there is nothing like hair when he is standing still, but he creates feathery streaks as he moves. He is shown in a sort of flying body press, showing off as usual. He's breathtakingly fast, and must make sure everyone in the vicinity knows that, but isn't particularly goal-oriented.

The Feminine Earth "Bertha" is sort of tree-like, with shimmering grass-green eyes, with an earthen torso and rocky base. The rest of her body is formed from wood, giving her the most clearly defined figure of them all, and a trunk mimicking a bared midriff. She can grow plants from any part of her body, and is by nature curious and nurturing towards all living things. Though she can conjure all manner of life-forms to do her bidding, she believes it ought to be left to flourish without corrupting influence. It pains her deeply to see others suffer.

The Masculine Earth "Brock" is built like a sumo wrestler, but with a sort of militaristic crew cut and shoulder pads of grass. His face is locked in a tired frown, with dull mineral eyes. His body is generally quite blocky, especially his extremities, and he is overall very sturdily built. Though he has immense grip and crushing strength, and is practically unshakeable, he is stoic and stubborn to the point of total apathy. There is nothing he won't apply the bare minimum to.

The Feminine Fire "Cindy" has a noticeably curvier figure, yet is also less well-defined, her limbs and dress-like shape flickering in thickness here and there. Flames pick up around her chest area like the cut of a dress, and further licks around her neck are almost fur-like. Her head extends into a wildly whipping tail, with an ever-present thin trail of smoke. She has an unusually flippant facade for one of the feminine, still vested in fire's interests, but she takes great pride in the unbeatable light and warmth she provides. She can still be vain, and occasionally sharp-tongued, but ultimately she does want to be useful, and will speak up for the downtrodden.

The Masculine Fire "Ashley" has an angular, demonic image, an unusually thin body for one of the masculine, but quite able to warp in shape and stretch his wiry limbs. His lower half often grows chaotically, providing him with unexpected bursts of speed. His hair flares out radiantly, always with what appear to be two blue-tipped horns. He is quite slow to spark into action, feeling little motivation where his greed cannot be satiated, but once his wrath is earned, he is relentlessly aggressive. He has a habit of roaring as shown when his power spreads, and though his desires are fickle, he fiercely defies control.

The Feminine Water "Flo" has a rather rounded shape, with ripples abound, spreading into something like a skirt with a scaly appearance. Her arms, in particular, tend to morph in and out of their proper form, rarely forming hands. Her hair flows out in a wavy fashion that is hard to distinguish from her body, and often flings out in droplets and sprays which can catch the light. She is a playful sort, as often on the move as she is intentionally resting, sensing her surroundings, feeling the slightest of vibrations. She will often seek out those in need of her, although she is just liable to get distracted along the way. Of all of them, she is the most sociable, getting along particularly well with the Feminine Air and, sometimes, the Feminine Earth.

The Masculine Water "Eddie" is a towering top-heavy form, as if he might crash down at any moment. His back frequently peaks into fins which run vertically. His hair forms a wave crest on top and a beard of eddies and seafoam that could rival Poseidon. His arms follow heavy deliberate movements, but his hands and fingers are less controlled. Parts of his body can turn to ice on command, usually protecting his bulk in sheets or letting his fingers be used as piercing weapons. Maintaining a severe demeanour, he considers the welding of his power incredibly important, self-righteously dooming all he sees fit to. He heaves around as if carrying the world on his shoulders, but ultimately does whatever he can be convinced is for the greater good. As conceited as he is, he is quite flexible in that regard.

===

You may be wondering why the feminine figures are somewhat less varied than the masculine. There's a couple of reasons for that. Firstly, the feminine were supposed to represent the elements as they pertain to life, whereas the masculine simply represented forces of nature. As such, I wanted the feminine to appear a little more like an average human, the dominant lifeforms, and the masculine to appear a little more warped and monstrous. I also personally like the implication that the virtues of humanity represent us much more than our conquest. Secondly, I'm bad at drawing.

In general, though, I tried to make them all quite formless and ageless. Only the Masculine Earth has defined feet, and only because the pose didn't make sense without them. Only the Earth have proper eyes, thanks to their element's versatility, and all their bodies have somewhat ambiguous boundaries. Even the human-like feminine have, say, wrinkles of bark on a youthful face, or a puffy face for a lithe body, or a childish visage on a developed figure. They'd be an easier sell animated but HELL if I have the skill for that.

I don't know what to do with these characters but they're neat, right? :P

#art #elemental #character design #original character

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shimmerbeasts · 15 days ago

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Wyll tried to ignore the way Karlach examined his features, now that she had the opportunity. After his transformation, the warlock had done everything to avoid the camp. He just could not bring himself to face the others. Of course, making a deal with a devil always carried a risk. One way or another, you would pay a price for it. Someone always got hurt. And sure, his transformation had been a blow to his pride, but that was nothing compared to the concern he now had as to how others might perceive him.

Those heavy horns on his head, those clawed hands, the paws for feet and the golden patches on his skin ... Wyll looked as chimeric as he looked diabolical. Something infernal and ill. Mizora had poisoned his future interactions with the people of the Sword Coast, those he meant to save and stand up for the most. How much would they question his good deeds now? Could they even bring themselves to see him as a travelling hero? Someone to confide in when trouble struck them? Or would his looks mean that from now on they would rather run into the arms of beings far more treacherous, all because they appeared harmless and friendly?

Karlach, however, did not seem to see any of that. In fact, there was almost a certain appreciativeness in her gaze as she looked at his horns. It made Wyll think something rather inappropriately: Were horn sizes something Tieflings could be jealous of? Was it a bit like men contesting who had the bigger penis? The thought tinged Wyll's cheeks red for a flash before he wrestled his embarrassment under control and made the fast decision: Never ask Karlach about this! Hells no!

Wyll shook his head and reassured her: "You don't sound paranoid at all." His mismatched eyes drifted over to Lae'zel's tent. The Githyanki was sitting on her carpet, legs crossed, eyes shut and ears moving back and forth as if she was sketching the world around her in sound. Wyll lowered his voice, almost as if he feared that she might eavesdrop on them. If he was honest, much like with Astarion's or Shadowheart's hearing, he had trouble figuring out just how fine-tuned their ears were.

"I'm with you on that, to be honest. Don't get me wrong: Lae'zel has proven herself to be a formidable ally, especially in combat, but you gotta admit: We don't know much about Githyanki. And well, we can't all be Gale, reading twelve books a day. I won't lie. I am kind of fascinated by Lae'zel. There is something horrifyingly beautiful about her precision in violence, and even her strange features have a certain attractiveness to them - DON'T TELL HER, I SAID THAT!"

Wyll took a deep breath, pressed his pointing fingers against his lips, exhaled and resumed: "Because we do not know a whole lot about Githyanki culture and customs, we should consider it more as a resort for later. Hells, I am not even sure if Lae'zel even knows what a 'zay-disc' does. She claims it purifies you, but what does that even mean in practice. If we were to ask Lae'zel to describe this machine to us, would she even be able to do that? I know she'll hate me for even saying this but I wonder if Lae'zel even knows how this purification works in practice.

"I've met Halsin briefly before he left and was captured by the goblins. He seemed like a fairly strong and steadfast leader to me. Someone, who clearly has earned the respect and trust of his community. I highly doubt that he would approve of what Khaga is doing. Isolating yourself might seem like a good temporary solution, but such a thing will make not just the world poorer, but also poison your own community. I think we should see if Halsin can help us. In the worst-case scenario, he might be able to at least tell us a bit more about the origin of our tadpoles. As I am sure we can all agree that an invasion of this brazen scale is pretty weird."

Karlach took another calming breath as Wyll seemed to back down - and so, in turn, did she. When he mentioned the pains that even a short time in Avernus can bring, she nodded slowly. He had a point - about not comparing pain. Usually she would have bitten and barked back, but there was something about Wyll that calmed her. She nodded again out of agreement. They certainly did... it was pointless to compare what had happened to them, just that it did happen.

She showed her willingness to move past the conversation by not expanding on it. Instead, she listened to what he had to say about the Druids and Crèche. Although she was listening, her ears even twitching ever so slightly at his calmer tones, she couldn't help but analyse his features all the more now she was closer.

It felt as though he had avoided the camp at large the last couple of nights. As if ashamed. Karlach couldn't assume that was indeed the reason, but it would be understandable if that was the case. He seemed a proud man, if only a pride in what he could bring to the people. Now that was at risk. Because of her. Yet, despite looking for some sign of intense regret for being in his way, she instead found herself wondering if he looked all the better like this... She would easily admit she was rather jealous of his horns, as most tieflings would be. Mizora may have mutated him, but at least it was a generous change.

"Hm," Karlach winced slightly, hands moving to her hips as she thought aloud. "I may sound paranoid, but I'm not so sure about this Crèche business. I'm completely fine with Lae'zel fighting alongside me in battle, but Gith's scrambling around my brain? No thanks. It seems too easy. So does this Druid, honestly - but what would I rather trust? The word of one stubborn person? Or the testimonies of many people? I'd rather give this Halsin guy a chance at least. Not like the Crèche is going anywhere, right? What about you, which side are you on?"

#ironheartsablaze #rp: what happens now #suffice to say i hunt monsters devils included: wyll ravenguard interaction #the demons bane: karlach cliffgate #Default Verse[Wyll]#things changed since you left: queue

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shesasurvivor · 4 years ago

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May 8, 2021 (fic)

It’s here at last! I’m so sorry I’m so late this year; things really got busy for me. But I could never forget my favorite girl completely. Here’s the update for May 8 this year!

Summary: Prim surprises Katniss for her birthday one year with an unexpected gift. Set pre-Games.

Read on A03

----

I open my bleary eyes only to see nothing but darkness spread out before me. I’m used to being an early riser, but somehow this seems to be pushing it. I’m not sure what time it is, but it feels too early regardless. I feel the light pressure of a small hand pressed against my back as it gently shakes me. So I didn’t imagine it.

With a start, I sit up, wondering what’s wrong that either my mother or my sister could be stirring me awake. It would have to be an emergency because that’s the only time either of them is awake before I am. I’m already halfway out of bed, using my foot to feel around in the dark for my leather boots when I make out Prim’s small shape in the darkness.

“Prim,” I breathe. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, Katniss,” she says with a giggle, of all things. The sound is strange and catches me off guard. A giggle? That doesn’t add up. Then a dim light fills the room as my mother strikes a match, and I find Prim beaming at me.

“Happy birthday!” she sings out as soon as she can see me clearly. Our mother stands behind her, still in her nightshirt, smiling faintly at me as well.

Oh. My birthday. I’d nearly forgotten about it. Not that there’s ever much to look forward to, other than the memory that I’m eligible to put my name in the Reaping a few more times in exchange for tesserae. Happy birthday to me.

“We have a surprise for you,” Prim continues, pulling on my hand to encourage me to get out of bed. I’m still a little groggy and would rather catch a few extra minutes of sleep before I take off into the woods, but I follow Prim anyways and let her lead me into the next room, to our cramped kitchen. In the center of the room sits a small, unfinished wooden table that’s been worn down from years of use. And right in the middle sits a round cake that’s been decorated with white frosting and dotted with ornately shaped yellow blossoms.

My breath catches in my throat at the sight of it. I can feel Prim exuding pride and excitement beside me. I want to be happy for her sake, to show how much I appreciate this. Instead, my heart falls into my stomach. All I can think about is how much it must have cost us to buy this.

“Oh, Prim,” I murmur, and there’s no mistaking that I’m upset and not as touched as she wanted me to be. And immediately I wish I wish I could take it back, or could have forced myself to play along, or something to keep the crestfallen expression that’s falling across my sister’s face now.

“You don’t like it?” Her voice is small, fragile. I crumble to pieces, then snap back together as I rush to reassure her that she hasn’t done something wrong. “It’s just… how much did something like this cost?” I’ve been by the bakery windows enough times with her to know that these cakes fall well outside of our pathetic budget. Not even my trades with the baker would catch us something like this. It would take a whole lot of squirrels to get something like a decorated cake from the window.

“Oh, is that all,” Prim looks amused now. “I just traded a wheel of cheese for it.”

“A wheel of cheese?” I repeat, not sure how to process the relief and confusion I’m feeling simultaneously. I’m beyond grateful that Prim didn’t spend anything more than that, but it doesn’t make sense. Prim’s goat cheese is outstanding, but it still doesn’t amount to the cost of one of the fancy cakes. “Mr. Mellark let you buy a cake for a wheel of cheese?”

“Not Mr. Mellark,” Prim explains. “One of his sons. The youngest one. His name is Peeta. He gave me some of the supplies and even offered to decorate it himself. He put the flowers on because I wasn’t getting them. He’s really good. Katniss?”

I’m staring blankly at the cake, trying to make sense of all this. I know the son she’s talking about, though this is the first time I’ve heard his name. Peeta. Peeta Mellark. We don’t know each other, at least not directly. But this isn’t the first time I’ve been gifted with baked goods because of him. There was one other time, on a fateful rainy day, when I thought my luck had finally run out and the end had finally come. Peeta Mellark. Of course, the cake is covered in yellow flowers.

“We’ll save it,” I say, shaking my head to clear out the memory. I smile down at my sister, looking up at me with relief at my lightened mood. “We’ll have it for dessert after dinner tonight.”

“Okay,” she agrees happily. She gives me a hug, then goes off to get ready for the day.

Later, in the crowded hallways of the school, I glance up and find Peeta Mellark staring straight at me. He looks as though he’s been watching me for a while, and for a minute, I think he’s going to actually come over to say something to me. For some reason, the thought makes me embarrassed. Heat flooding my cheeks, I look away quickly. A moment later, I dare to look back, but he’s not looking at me anymore either. Instead, he’s turned and has started walking in the opposite direction down the hallway. But as the hall begins to clear out, I notice a crumpled piece of paper lying where he had been standing moments earlier. Unable to resist the curiosity, I edge over to the spot and pick it up. On the wrinkled paper is a rough pencil sketch of the very same blossoms that dot the cake back home. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” is written in clean, careful handwriting underneath.

I lift my eyes and stare for a long moment in the direction he disappeared in, trying to make sense of it. Was he about to give this to me for my birthday? We don’t really know each other. Though he would have to know it was my birthday after he helped Prim with my cake. But why? Why would he do any of that? He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m the one who owes him, who will never stop owing him, and I still haven’t managed to get out so much of a thank you to him for saving my life all those years ago.

After a while, I give up trying to piece it together. The drawing can’t have been anything more than a practice run for the cake he decorated, with no other meaning. He was probably looking at me because he remembered my sister. There’s no further explanation for it. Besides, everyone loves Prim. I’m the forgettable one.

I think about tossing the crumpled drawing into a trash bin as I pass by but somehow feel bad about doing so. Instead, I fold it carefully and put it in my pocket. I forget about it until that evening when the Hawthornes have come over to help me celebrate my birthday. As Gale hands me a slice of the cake, I remember the incident, and a hand slips into the pocket and fingers the paper sitting there.

Briefly, I wonder if I should find Peeta Mellark at school tomorrow and return the drawing to him, but I push the thought away. He clearly didn’t care about it. Neither do I, I tell myself. But the picture sits safely in my pocket regardless. It will serve as a reminder of a particularly nice birthday I had one year, if nothing else.

#Katniss Everdeen #THG fanfic #Everlark fanfiction #Happy Birthday Katniss

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starrysupercell · 3 years ago

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Sooo... Now that its my wif- Tara's birthday... Are the Mystics (And Bo) gonna celebrate it :D? I can imagine Gene trying to set up some kind of surprise party for her, that would remain a surprise for like 4 minutes...

DANG IT. Past 12. TwT

But here you go! An outline for how Tara’s birthday is celebrated this year. 🧿 best fortune teller in Starr Park tbh. Your wife says hi 💜

I really gotta start keeping track of the Birthdays to have these things planned out.

One of the many good things about how much time Tara and Gene have known each other, is he knows she'll figure it out.

The surprise for her will be not the fact that there's a party because she can easily see that, but the extent of it, because she can promise not to sneak a peek at it.

(But now she's curious! Also, she's so used to checking on the future,* it takes a very conscious effort to not do so.)

So, while Gene keeps Tara preoccupied by taking a walk around the Park, Sandy, the Tribe, Gale and Mortis (because they're also friends with the Mysticals bc of the skins, shush.) are in charge of decorating.

So, with only two responsible adults in this group, how well do you think this is going to go? :)

Gale: So do you have a plan for the setup?

Sandy: hm? >.o oh. Yy*yawns*eah. here you go... *hands him a paper*

Gale: ...this just has a rough sketch of the main room and a couple of balloons.

Sandy- mm..felt sleepy but there's still.... -.-...time to...zzzz....

Gale:

Mortis laughs because well they'd just have to wing it! (He would definitely ask Emz for help, but she's busy with the teen crew for plot convenience) As long as decorations are already bought, it should an easy thing in setting it up the way they want it to look.

....decorations are already bought, right?

Sandy softly snores, and the Party Crew realizes that's their answer.

Meanwhile, Gene and Tara walk through the Park. The plan is picking up a few extra gifts along the way before heading back to the main party.

Their first stop is Barley's for some drinks! He gifts one bottle of Tara’s preferred drink, but does charge for the rest. Along the way, we see Brawlers greeting Tara and wishing her well on her birthday.

Colette’s very enthusiastic! She knows all the Brawler’s birthdays, and wanted to make something for Tara!

She doesn’t really have extra money recently, since there was some recent change in management, and she usually makes more detailed items, but because of the money problem, couldn’t buy as many materials she needed, but she’s derailing, so she hands Tara her wrapped gift.

It’s a cute hand-made Shade Plush!

Tara is delighted and thanks her for it. It’s a pleasant surprise, and she appreciates it. Colette fangirls a bit, thanking her, and then waving bye as the Mystics carry on.

Back at the Bazaar, they're trying to brainstorm on what to do. Well, half of them present are. Sandy is asleep and Nita + Leon are playing around the house.

Mortis says the only things he has back home are.. well, decorations of a more... gothic type..you know,.. (Halloween decors. they’re Halloween decors.)

Gale also offers up... some Snowtel hangings, but again, ‘tis not quite the right season to be jolly.

Bo suggests makeshift decorations. The twins are good at crafts! .. but more so along the lines of forest materials, not sand and...

Everyone’s drawing a blank, and decide that they could gather up their own share of materials, and see what could work best. Their time limit won’t really allow a break after all.

So Gale contacts Lou and asks him if he could meet him halfway with everything he can carry. Try not to get caught by the Penguin boss. Lou, ever the chaotic good guy agrees.

Bo gathers up Leon and Nita and they head out to see what they can scrounge up.

Mortis wonders if he should call up Frank too since he’ll be here later to set up and provide the music, but decides to be ~generous~ and just send a flock of his Bats to pick some things up for him. He sees them off adoringly.

With a content sigh, he lounges back and waits for his precious lovelies to return with his ideal decorations. Sandy sleeps on...

Back with Gene and Tara, the next item to pick up is the cake. Piper has the order ready-- a black forest chateau cake.

“Magnificent taste, darlings!” she compliments. she has it all boxed up very fancily. “It’s on the house. Take it as my gift for you. Happy birthday!”

She’ll also be attending the party later. Tara thanks her for the cake. She and Gene then take their leave.

Along the way to their last stop at the new Castle environment for the food, (because while they don’t know Ash very well yet, Tara loves trying out the new items and pizza is always great for a party.)

“Hey, Tara! ...hold up.” Edgar jumps down from a building they’re passing, just because he can and . “...this is from the rest of the Gang. Me too, I guess. Happy birthday.”

The party squad are actually worse off than before.

The Shaman Tribe are back, and the Twins became interested in using fabrics to try and make something too. so they’re playing around with it pretty much.

Gale just arrived, with Lou joined along because he was interested in the party planning too. (So, the snowtel is understaffed right now.) but they’re just chatting instead of working.

Mortis’ bats haven’t arrived yet, and he’s getting worried. They don’t usually take this long in running errands for him.

Leon and Nita are practically playing catch right now. They knock over something that looked priceless. Oh, a crystal ball, perhaps. Bo reprimands them.

They haven’t gotten much closer to making up the room...

There’s a knock, and the group freezes because oh no, they’re out of time. but it ends up being Frank. A very unhappy Frank who was suddenly surrounded by screeching batties who kept picking apart the house while he was packing up his set up for the party. They followed him there afterwards, along with several things.

Mortis tries joking it off ;; , and then very quietly and off-handedly apologizes when Frank doesn’t find it very funny.

But then so hey!!! you’re here so decoration time, everybody! let’s hop to it!

Gene’s Lamp, Sliver, floats in. Sent by Gene himself to check on the progress. They were nearing after all. The Lamp’s alarmed by what it sees. That is, absolutely nothing.

It glares around, and spots Sandy still sleeping. Sliver floats over to him, and hops on him-- Wake up!

Sandy does so, but is very grumpy. “what?”

Tara’s Birthday.

“yeah? what about it?”

Don’t you care?

“obviously.” he swats at the lamp. “it’s tomorrow.”

>:( Today. It’s TODAY.

“,” Sandy looks around, as wide-eyed as he could be.

broken crystal ball, a mix of decorations, and nobody currently fixing up anything from the looks of it.

They’re on the way.

Sandy makes a face. “ok... game plan on the fly.”

The final stretch of the day out.

Gene and Tara are nearing the Bazaar, and along the way, Gene starts to get heartfelt.

He reminisces how they first met, how far they’ve traveled together, how much longer they’ve yet to go.

He wishes he could think of something to give her that meant something like the other gifts that she received that day.

He was a Genie, but after everything they’ve been through, she deserves much, much more than what he could ever imagine to conjure up for her.

Tara smiles. “(Don’t... put me on too high a pedestal, my Friend.”)

Don’t sell yourself short either. You’ve done so much.

“(Yes. I have.)” Tara muses unhappily, thumbing the doll.

Gene suddenly gets the idea of what his gift could be, but he needs his Lamp to start on it.

Right before the two opened the door, a pair of bats were hanging up the last decoration.

And when the two walked in with the final party supplies at hand and are amazed at the display.

intricate ice sculptures and a more snowy feel set up where the food would go. the music section where Frank set up (who was talking with Mortis.) had a darker aesthetic, including the balloons over there.

Lastly the rest of the place was decorated with very cute works of art. no doubt the Tribe kid’s handiwork. she recognized it from when they stayed over, and the gifts Bo’s gotten from them and shown her.

You’d think that the seemed like the mix of fancier silver decorations, a more gothic theme and natural crafts would look odd together... and well, it was quaint, but it was very pleasing to see.

a patchwork of oddities, not unlike this park, really. She’s always been fond of odds and ends. Tara loved it!

Sandy yawns and walks over to them. “we actually just got done with the set up. but if it makes you feel better, we can still hide right now and yell surprise.”

Tara laughs. It’s okay.. it isn’t like she could be-- but she appreciates it. Sandy shrugs, like he didn’t just call all the shots and work in a hurry with the other eight. “you’re welcome.”

Lou offers to help set up the food and cake. Gale helps too, after presenting his gift too.

Frank and Mortis notice the arrival of the Birthday Gal and wave her over. They chat animatedly-- it’s been so long since they’ve had the chance to catch up! They should plan something soon. Tara agrees, and their gift is from the both of them. I can see it being a very nice piece of clothing, though I’m drawing a blank as to what.

The Lamp reunites with Gene, and their perspectives merge again. Oh. the party was really cut close, huh? but it worked out well! what a relief. a scrap book of actual memories is what you have in mind? how very sappy.... She would like it.

Lastly, Bo walks up to Tara, greeting her and wishing her well on this day. He hopes she likes what they helped with ....he then has the Twins apologize for breaking a few things around the house--

Tara dismisses it easily. They can be replaced. The Twins, that is. (joke to scare them.) But really, as long as they were careful from now on, it was okay. the cub and chameleon agree with no hesitation and then run off to cause more mayhem, but quieter this time.

The Psychic smiles. The guests would be arriving soon, and it was already so lively.

Time to party~!

_______

*I’m still deciding on the extent of her powers, so future sight might not be a thing, because of the characterization I have for her. I’m thinking something along the lines of “Can see past events, and make very informed guesses based on what she knows about people, but cannot see the future itself.”

#Brawl Stars #Birthday #Tara #My Outlines #Mystic Triad #Shaman Tribe #Mortis #Gale #Frank #my interpretation of Gene is um different from canon #if it's confusing #maybe i'll explain. uwu

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ilguna · 4 years ago

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Metanoia - Chapter Fifteen (f.o)

Summary: you will be crowned victor of the 75th hunger games.

Word Count; 10.7k

Warnings; swearing, mention of murder and torture

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

uhhh long ass chapter jfc

–

You tap the end of the spoon against the table, “Maybe more gasoline?”

Beetee gives you a look, “I’ve engineered these perfectly--”

“I’m literally from District Two, I manufactured weapons. Just add a bit more gas, and see what happens, it can’t hurt, can it?”

Beetee readjusts the glasses on his face, “I suppose not.” he gets to work, and you scoop some of the carrots onto your spoon, trying not to make a face when you force them down your throat. They’ve gotten cold from how long you’ve been stalling, “You’ve made molotov arrows before?”

“Well…” you make a face, and he turns his eyes to you, “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve… experimented that’s for sure.”

Gale laughs, “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve illegally made weapons and sometimes started bush fires because of it,” you laugh, “And I’ve never been caught, either.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be in here.” Beetee mutters.

You roll your eyes, “As if I would willingly do work now. Just telling you to add more gas was a bore.”

Beetee screws the top back onto the arrow, being careless with it to see if it’ll explode or whatever. Which means that you should definitely put some distance between you and the psychopath here, you’re not too fond of being inside of a molotov. No matter how small that arrow is, there will be a ton of fire.

“Give it a shot.” you motion at Gale, “Seriously.”

“It won’t set the studio on fire?”

“You’re talking to the two engineers, here. Go ahead before I do it myself.”

Gale picks up the crossbow, and then takes the arrow that Beetee is offering him. While he prepares everything, you swivel around to face Gale, while Beetee has to turn the entire wheelchair to see.

“I’ve been trying to make a trident for Finnick.” Beetee begins, the two of you watch Gale prepare, the people on the other end of the room have fire extinguishers ready to put the fire out as soon as the arrow is fired.

“Don’t make it look like an actual trident, keep the design as close as possible to the one he had inside of the arena.” you scoop up another spoonful of carrots, “And make it hollow in the middle, it’ll be easier to move around--and you can make it compatible that way too.”

“Ready?” Gale asks.

“We’ve been ready.” you eat the cold, slimy carrots.

Gale fires the arrow, and right when it hits the bullseye, it explodes into fire. The entire target, the wall behind it, mostly the floor and some get onto the ceiling too. The crew runs forward, putting out the fire before it can spread across the entire room.

You look at Beetee, “See? Not too shabby.”

“Know any ways to make them waterproof?”

“Wax, water rolls right off of it. Don’t lay it on too thick, and you’ll be just fine.” You set the empty tray onto the table, “

“They should have sent you down here sooner.” Gale says, coming back over, “Imagine how much faster all of this would have been made.”

“Beetee would have gotten fed up with me, if he isn’t already.” you say, stretching.

“You’re not too bad to be around.”

“You only like me because I make your weapon engineering much easier. I’m able to catch your mistakes before you even make them.” you tuck your legs in.

He ignores what you said, moving on to Gale, “How’s Katniss doing?”

Gale doesn’t give much of an answer, “Recovering.”

“Let me guess, she’s still mad at you?” you raise your eyebrows. For this, he tells you to shut up. You shrug, getting back to the sketch you were working on for your own personal weapon, “Hey, if you can’t see how out of line you were, then that’s your deal.”

“How was I out of line?”

You place the sketchbook on your knee, “Dude, you called her fiance weak for doing what he could to stay alive. Obviously you two are still pretty close after that, but I wouldn’t have made a comment like that.” you pause for a moment, looking at Gale, “Then again, you don’t know what it’s like to be under a microscope, you can run your mouth all you want, because you were nothing but a coal miner.”

Gale practically rolls his eyes, “I know what it’s like, Katniss had to start calling me her cousin.”

“Katniss was the one being watched, don’t flatter yourself.” you go back to what you were doing.

“She’s right.” Beetee chips in, “(Y/n), I mean.”

“Right.”

The sound of boots on cement makes you look up, expecting Gale to be the one walking away. He doesn’t normally like to take shit from you or Beetee. Coming down here is like a safe place, allowing him to vent and blow steam when he gets to test out the new fancy weapons.

Gale stands right where he was before, which means that it’s someone else. And since Beetee can’t walk, you turn around in the chair to see who it is.

It’s Finnick. His hands are in his pockets, with a gleeful smile on his face, “Good afternoon.”

Gale is just as suspicious as you are, “What are you up to?”

“What was I up to.” he corrects, coming to a stop behind your chair, “It’s a surprise.”

Beetee makes a face, and then wheels himself around so that he’s facing the table again. As he gets back to work, you resume critiquing Gale, and Finnick finds where he wants to be.

“Gale, don’t get me wrong, I can sorta see where you’re coming from, but you need to see it from our perspective too.” you drop your leg, “Let’s compare you to Peeta, since you were doing that already by saying you’d never say what you said.

“He had absolutely no clue what the fuck was going on. Peeta didn’t know that there was a plan to get him and Katniss out of the arena, he didn’t know that Coin was planning on using Katniss as a symbol. The only things he did know was what the Capitol fed him to get him on their side.

“And if you still can’t see eye to eye with it, imagine a gun pointed to Katniss’ head. If you so much as step out of line in a way that Snow doesn’t like, he’ll shoot her. It’s not his family, friend or girlfriend that he’s killing, it’s yours. And if you don’t cooperate after Katniss, he’s grabbing the next dearest thing to you.” you lean back in the chair, “And before you say shit, Snow literally did that to me twice. First was right after I won my games and he killed my entire family, and the second time was when we found Tanith dead in a chair. It’s a little different for Tanith, because she was already dead, but he still tried to use her against me.”

“Okay, but what were they threatening Peeta with?”

“His life, for starters.” Finnick says, “And likely his family too.”

Gale doesn’t say anything after that.

“How’s this design?” You offer the sketchbook for Beetee, and he takes it.

“We could probably start this now.” Beetee says, “Mind doing something for Finnick, too?”

“Sure.”

He hands it back, but Finnick takes it before you’re able to grab a hold of it. Sighing, you look up at Finnick, watching his face as he looks over the page, “These are swords.”

“Sai’s.” you correct.

Finnick gives you a look, “But it says right here--”

“--that it’s basically a sword, yes, I know. Normally they’re used to disarm someone--as I showed you before. But I want some that are actually sharp. Blunt force trauma is fun, but what’s even more fun is spilling someone’s guts in front of them.”

Finnick hands the book back, “Sword.”

“Sure.” you cross your legs, “What are you here for, other to annoy me?”

“Keeping an eye on you three for the next couple of hours.” Finnick pulls up a chair of his own, mirroring your stance.

“Sounds exciting.”

Everything falls back into rhythm. Beetee goes back to tinkering on arrows, having Gale use the decoys. And the times he’s not shooting arrows, he’s sitting in a chair talking to you guys. You cough up a couple of sketches for Beetee, hoping that it’ll be good enough.

You might be the one from District Two, but that doesn’t mean you actually put things together. The legal age to actually get into the warehouses is eighteen, and since you went into the games at sixteen and won, you never really had to work. You’ve sat on money for your entire life. The only people that worked were your parents, aunts and uncles and some of your cousins.

Those same cousins taught you how to put things together before your games--obviously. During family get togethers, you’d all disappear for a little while, which is when they’d take the chance. They always thought it was so cool to pass on forbidden knowledge, and have it all be a secret between you guys.

They had this secret stash of gadgets inside of a log, and they’d fuck around with it until it turned into something dangerous. Honestly, the first thing you learned from them was the molotov, and when you threw it on a rock, it exploded and the dead grass around it caught fire.

Cue you all scooping the gadgets into your shirts and taking off behind the houses to get as far as possible. Your older cousin had a backup spot not too far away, you dumped all the shit there and got back to the house in record time. Before the firefighters had even left their stations.

It’s a wonder why you weren’t caught, cause that wasn’t the first time that area specifically had been set on fire, and it wouldn’t be the last either. The firefighters definitely had an idea of why it would always set ablaze, but never pursued it. After a while, they started to monitor the place on extremely hot days, thinking that it was the sun that was starting the fires.

If only they had known that it was a bunch of teenagers doing that shit for fun.

After a while, Beetee gets tired of the arrows and starts over to the crew to begin making the sai’s. While they’re heating up the metal, he gets to making the hilt.

“I feel like we’re doing more work than we have to.” you look at Beetee.

“Do you want it to be fucked up, or do you want it to be done right the first time?” He raises his glasses above his eyes when he looks right back at you.

“The first time.” you sigh.

When you get back to work, Finnick moves in closer, curious as to how you’re designing his new weapon. Every now and then he’ll point out the practicalities, and weighing in on how he would rather it be built.

“This doesn’t even look like a trident anymore.” you hold the journal away from your face, and turn it so it’s long-ways since the entire trident spans over both pages, “It’s basically the opposite.”

“But think of it this way.” Finnick reaches over, touching where the blades of the trident are, “Initial stab, right? But the rest of this does more damage.”

There’s a spear point at the top of the trident, which isn’t the problem. That’s pretty normal when it comes to the design. However, instead of wanting all the other blades facing up and towards it, he wants it downwards.

“And you can even make it compatible!” Finnick grins.

“At least we agree on one thing.” You pass the journal to him, “Go ahead and show Beetee, he’s the one in charge.”

Finnick goes over, and it’s basically halfway across the room, since Beetee is hovering over the crew’s work like a hawk. He wasn’t playing around when he said that he would like it to be perfect the first time around.

“Finnick’s into you.” Gale says.

“You say that like he’s not my soulmate.” you give Gale a look, “Also, I’m not into Finnick.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a teenager and I don’t date people right after they broke up with their girlfriends.” you turn back to Finnick to see that he’s discussing the weapon with Beetee and a crew member.

“If there was no Annie, would you have dated him then?”

You squint, “No.”

Gale laughs, but doesn’t say anything because Finnick is heading your guys’ way again. He drops the journal in Beetee’s workspace on his way over, “Beetee will start it tonight.”

“Cool.” you get up, picking up the lunch tray, “Am I free to leave now?”

“Yes,” Finnick says, but he makes a point to stay in front of both you and Gale.

“See ya later, Beetee!” you shout, “Send someone if you need my help.”

He waves, and then goes back to hovering.

Finnick starts up the staircase first, and Gale walks beside you, “Any progress on Peeta?”

Gale rolls his eyes, you can feel it, “Same as he was before. I saw him before coming here.”

“Katniss still saying no?” you look over.

Gale nods.

“That’s reasonable, I wouldn’t want to go near him either…” you trail off for a moment, and then laugh to yourself.

Finnick glances over his shoulder curiously, “What is it?”

You chuckle a bit, “Out of everyone, I’m definitely last on the list of people he wants to see.”

“Why’s that?”

Your smile is small as you look at your feet, rather than up at Finnick, “I nearly killed Peeta.”

“After the birds? I know--” Finnick says.

“No, after. After you had been pulled out of the arena, did I tell either of you that story?”

Gale says no, which is expected, but Finnick thinks about it before answerings, “We talked about emotion when you first got here, and how intense it was.”

“Well, after I left the lightning tree, my real goal was to go downhill and straight for the cornucopia. I thought that if the jungle were to burn, I would need to take my chances in the middle. On the way, I found a livid Peeta, and a strangely calm Johanna.” you smile, “Peeta started screaming at me instead, and Johanna urged me not to do anything.

“But then Peeta backed me into a rock, so when I got up, I punched him twice. Kicked him a couple of times while he was down, and then Johanna stepped in--” Finnick has slowed down now, he watches you, “--and naturally I knocked her out with a single right hook, since she’s… weak to say the least. She hit her head on a rock on the way down, and I thought I’d finish her off later.

“As for Peeta, it was just him and I.” the smile develops into a grin, “I was about to rip him apart--and I mean minutes from doing it. But then the peacekeepers came and I thought that it would be better to leave the situation as it was.”

“You’re… sadistic.” Gale says.

“I’ve heard it all before.” you say, looking at Finnick.

“At least you didn’t kill them.” Finnick says.

“Peeta knew that I was about to. Doesn’t matter if I did it or not.”

Gale laughs now, “You should go visit him to see what he says.”

“He’d probably get mad at me for not killing him when I had the chance. I’m surprised he didn’t strangle me in that hovercraft.”

“The tracker jacker venom fucked with his head, he probably barely recognized you.” Gale says.

At the top of the staircase, Finnick stops you, “We’ll see you later, Gale.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m going to see Boggs.”

You salute as a joke, getting an eye roll in return. Finnick purposely waits until Gale is gone, and then he moves out of your way, “You’re getting better.”

“At making people like me?” you ask, giving Finnick a look, “You know, a genius once told me that I’m not as dislikable as I think.”

Finnick raises his eyebrows, “A genius you say?”

“Maybe not a genius.” you laugh, and Finnick joins in, “So what were you up to?”

“You’ll see in a couple of hours.”

“Is that why we aren’t getting off on the floor we normally do?” you stare at your feet.

“We’re heading straight for the medical floor to Johanna.”

You stop on the stairs, and Finnick gets a couple of steps above you, “Did you not just hear my whole story?”

“The worst Johanna will do is run her mouth about the fact that you didn’t kill her when you had the chance. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask one of the nurses. We’ve heard her speech a couple of times now.”

“Then can I opt out and go to the dorm instead?” you start up the stairs again.

“You’re really going to leave me to talk to Johanna?”

Your eyebrows draw together, “You’re the one that wants to see her!”

“Come on, we see Johanna and then we go to the dorm right after, I promise.” Finnick says.

You hold out your pinky for Finnick, and with a slight chuckle, he pinky promises you. The two of you resume your journey up the stairs, and then he says, “Unless we talk for too long.”

You press your lips together, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. He laughs anyway.

When the two of you reach Johanna’s room, you hang by the door, not really wanting to go inside. You don’t like the look of the room, much less the idea of being back inside of it. Ever since you’ve been granted the freedom, you’ve made a point of not coming back to the hospital--or infirmary--floor, no matter the reason.

The other day, you cut your hand on a blade down in the workshop. The crew had wanted to call someone down to come and take care of you, and you barely stopped them in time. Over your dead body, would you be brought back here to sit and wallow in white for a couple of days.

Especially over something as childish as a cut. So, you found the first aid kit, cleaned out the wound and Beetee stitched it up for you. The crew was a little surprised how calm you were during the entire procedure but the only thing you had to say was ‘high pain tolerance’ after all your years of bullshit.

So being back here makes you nervous. As if someone will pop out from one of the walls and tie you down to a bed for absolutely no reason. You’re perfectly healthy, and the nurses and doctors knew this. Even after you had tests that came back negative for poison in your system, you were required to stay.

Finnick and Johanna’s conversation is surprisingly normal and boring. There was absolutely no reason for you to tag along, except for Finnick’s own request. The only reason why you’re here is to be nice.

As if Finnick’s read your mind, he looks at you, “(Y/n) been helping Beetee out in the workshop lately, designing weapons.”

Johanna’s eyes drag over to you, bored of it already, “She’s being helpful for once?”

You stare at her.

“She’s done quite a lot, Johanna.” Finnick says, looking back at her, “She’s the one that opened the conversation about rescuing you and the others from the Capitol.”

“For her own benefit.” Johanna laughs, “Because she can’t stand being alone. It’s why she’s kept you around so long, you know? Not because she likes you, but because she needs another soul to harvest. She’s like the fucking grim reaper.” she looks at you now, “A heartless murderer.”

You take a deep breath, and then a smile spreads over your face, “I should have killed you when I had the chance. At least then, there would be one less leech on the morphling supply.” you spit, “You deserve everything that Snow gave you, the waterboarding, the near-drowning. It’s a shame that he only kept you alive so you’d suffer and become nothing but another downer on everyone around you.”

Finnick’s head whips in your direction, clearly not expecting the outburst. You’ve been so good for so long, but there’s something about Johanna that just gets you steaming.

“I should have stomped your head into that fucking rock in front of Peeta.” you seethe, “And then I should’ve beaten Peeta to death, because you two weren’t nearly worth sacrificing my life over.” you shake your head, “You’re nothing but another morphling addict. Another victor that couldn’t take the fucking heat. If I were you, I’d just kill myself from how embarrased I’d be.”

Johanna’s been smiling at you the entire time, like she wanted this sort of reaction, and so you finish it off, “It’s probably how Blight felt too.”

Her smile drops, and her hand is reaching towards the needles in her arms before her feet have even hit the ground. You stand your ground, allowing Finnick to get her to stop because she does some real damage to her veins.

“(Y/n)--go!” Finnick’s angry, and he glares at you over his shoulder.

“My fucking pleasure.” you spit, leaving the doorway.

It was worth it. Every word that left your mouth was fucking worth it. Being nice to people is such a fucking chore, especially when it’s towards people who don’t deserve it.

You stand in the stairwell for a moment, thinking about where you’d want to go. But there’s really no place that’s safe if Finnick comes looking for you. The workshop and dorm are an obvious place, as well as the stream you stumbled upon. He’ll check with Boggs and Gale--and there’s no one else here that likes you.

You hate it here.

You thought you would be able to make this place feel like a real home and maybe even like it, but it’s not worth it. This whole place isn’t worth it to you.

Everything inside of you is a frenzy.

You have to go home.

You start up the staircase, knowing that seeing Plutarch and finding a ride would be the place to start. He might not be happy about it, but there’s really no need for you here. You’re not doing anything besides designing personal weapons that Beetee likes and doesn’t like.

Occasionally you’re genuinely helpful with dumb shit, but that’s the extent of it. Other than that, you’re miserable. The freedom you have isn’t actual freedom.

You hop up the last couple of steps, and round the corner to the door to the control room. You practically throw it open, nearly letting it hit the wall, when your hand appears between the crack to stop it.

At your appearance, a few people look over. The only eyes who stick are Boggs, Gale, Haymitch and Plutarch.

“Where’s Finnick?” Gale asks.

“Not his owner,” you go down the steps, eyes on Plutarch, “I want a ride to District Two. Your next hovercraft is mine to take.”

Boggs stands up, crossing his arms, “What about the workshop?”

“Boring, Beetee has it under control.”

“And Finnick?” Haymitch asks, “I thought you were just liking it here--”

“I’m a liar.”

Gale sighs, “Tell us what happened.”

“Johanna and I are going to end up killing each other the next time we come face to face.” your eyes land on Plutarch to see he has an eye on his watch, “So unless you feel like cleaning up a dead body, I’ll take one free ticket to District Two.”

“The next hovercraft is leaving in fifteen minutes.” Plutarch looks up now, “I’ll call in and let them know you’re going.”

“Does Finnick know you’re doing this?” Gale asks, “He’s going to be upset if we have to tell him--”

“It’s his fault for getting attached to me.” your face is serious, and then the smile spreads over your face, because of the irony of that statement. After what Johanna had said… “He’s your problem now, good luck.”

You go up the steps, heading right out the door you came in. You can’t take the staircase to the top, so you make your way to the elevator instead. You press the button, waiting patiently with a smile on your face.

The hovercrafts that they’re using to get the supplies to and from District Two are the slow type. District Thirteen is in no rush to get the crates there, so it won’t be a surprise to you if it takes more than just a couple of hours for you to get there. Or if it makes stops along the way.

The elevator arrives, you pull up the safety bar, and then step inside, pulling it back down. You punch the top floor button with your thumb, then you go to stare as the floors disappear beneath your feet.

At least back home you don’t have to act and lie for the happiness of others. Especially if your first and only stop is going to be your house in victor’s village. And if you need groceries, it looks like you’ll be hunting for food to eat. Or you might actually have to go into town and ransack the already destroyed buildings.

Most of the people that used to own the shops are probably dead, or they won’t be returning back home for a while. The entirety of victor’s village is going to be a graveyard--there might even still be rotting bodies inside of the houses. If the smell is too unbearable, you could always bury the corpses yourself.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

At the top, there’s someone waiting on the ramp. You don’t bother waiting for them to tell you to hurry it up, you start jogging immediately. The faster you get on, the faster you can take off.

“I’m ready.” you say when you get to the ramp.

“Good, take a seat and strap in.” the man follows you in.

The whole district is in ruins.

The last time you were here, everything seemed to be in near perfect condition, apart from the obvious looting that had taken place. The broken windows, and the wood splinters in the gravel could be easily looked over. But it’s much harder to see this place as it once was.

Most stores and houses that were made out of wood, and had been passed down from generation to generation have been burned to ashes or their cement flooring. There’s nothing left of them, not the furniture inside, and definitely not the foundation. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that they were vacant lots.

If they couldn’t burn, then they were bombed. Chunks of cement and brick have now joined the mixture in the gravel. The roofs have long since caved in, and just one gust of wind makes the walls shudder. All it would take is one more bomb dropped in this area, and it all would come crashing down.

The air around you is hardly breathable too. Before you had stepped off the hovercraft you were given a mask--not the same gas mask that you’d used during the tribute center invasion--and a pair of sunglasses that would help you see through the debris and smoke.

It’s almost like fog, but so much worse. It’s smoke from fires that can’t be put out, and it’s from the bombs that are from your own district. The loyalists and the rebels are still fighting over this place. Katniss’ visit here hadn’t done much good, in fact you’d say that it made it a lot worse.

As you wander through the streets towards victor’s village, you come up with a lousy plan that’ll likely get you killed.

Coin had thought that sending Katniss here was a good idea, but it wasn’t by any means. Katniss got a bullet to her ribs, which bruised a ton of them, and put her right back into a hospital bed. They clearly didn’t think about what would happen if you mix people who don’t mind the games, with someone who’s leading a rebellion.

You’ve seen the speech, and as heartfelt as it was, it’s not what they want to hear.

Here’s the way you saw it at first; this girl from the poorest part of District Twelve is kicking up a rebellion that’ll likely destroy the system that’s making District Two rich, and the favorite. District Two thinks that they’re going to get everything taken away from them. Their houses, nice clothes and furniture, the good paying jobs.

You would all much rather send in the two kids a year--mostly because your children are prepared ahead of time, and therefore the career districts have nothing to lose--than take the risk of getting everything taken away. The Capitol absolutely adores you guys, with all that you supply them.

So, instead of having the girl that’s leading the rebellion try and convince the loyalists that they’re on the wrong side. You have someone who’s lived in the same luxury as them do it instead. How is Katniss supposed to understand how you all feel? She despised the games, while the rest of you adored it.

The outsider districts don’t understand the need for luxury and favoritism. They’ve lived on the hated side of the Capitol for a long time. The Capitol expects them to underperform in the games, so that’s why they don’t ever see the spotlight until they get a winner.

Anyway, you’re going to get to your house, change into something that says ‘living in luxury’ and then march your way to the justice building. There, you won’t ask for any sort of protection but an escort there instead. You won’t carry any weapons, you won’t pull on a bulletproof vest.

If they shoot you, then they’ll have made their choice very clear.

The gate entrance to the village is all sorts of broken. You barely push the metal door open, and the entire thing falls apart in your hands. You have to prop it up against the fence, being sure that it won’t fall over before you move on to go inside. Then, you waste no time with a quick jog through.

The fountain in the first part of the village is dry. The cement is no longer grey, it’s black from the amount of fire that must have washed through here. On the tiles that line the bottom, there’s melted coins. You’re tempted to reach in and pick one out when you realize just how bad of an idea that is.

You continue down the stone brick path after that, taking in note of every house that you pass. The doors are slightly ajar, most windows seem to be shattered, and a couple are burned down to the foundation. Most still stand though, Sorcha, Enobaria, Brutus, Tanith and Zavian’s seem to be in good condition.

As for Lyme, her house is completely gone. You have an idea that it might be because of the fact that she’s helping the rebels, and some of the loyalists must’ve gotten behind their lines to come and burn hers down specifically. As for the others, there must be a bigger story behind it.

As you come into the third part of the neighborhood, you cross your fingers as you hope it’s not like Lyme’s. You just want a moment inside of a clean house, to be able to go upstairs and find out that there’s running water. Then you’ll take a shower, get dressed in fancy clothing and put on makeup as if there isn’t hellfire around you.

It takes you a moment to find it, because all the houses in this section are still standing. And then you realize that your house is the only one that looks fresh. It hasn’t been touched by all the ash and smoke, it’s still as bright white as the day you received it. Perfect condition.

No windows are broken, the wood and cement show no signs of it being on fire at any point in time. The door is shut tight, a little stuck so you have to rattle the handle until it comes loose. You swing the door wide open, standing in the doorway as you wait to see a mess.

But it’s clean. Of course, the house has collected dust, but there’s no blood. There’s no broken vases, or stuffing all over the floor. It’s how you left it.

You shut the door behind you, locking it for good measure. As you go inside, you can’t help but to look around and gape like you’re on a house tour. Nothing has been touched, which is the part that baffles you the most. Both the inside and outside are great.

For a moment, you’re not sure why you’re so surprised that nothing had happened--apart from the fact that the whole neighborhood is disgusting. And then you remember the last time you came home from the games. With the house torn apart with dead bodies frozen in time.

“He seriously fucked me up, didn’t he?” you ask, laughing to yourself.

The house does smell pretty bad though, and the scent only gets stronger the more you head towards the kitchen. You have to plug your nose, strictly breathing in and out through your mouth, blinking away the tears that form in your eyes. It’s just so strong…

Going through the doorway, you take your time to look for anything that might be off. There is nothing, but you’re sure that it was coming from here specifically, and the second that you test the water with a breath of air through your nose, you gag. You go back to breathing through your mouth, even though you can taste the toxicity.

It’s not gas, that’s for sure. It’s something else…

The kitchen, the smell, the fact you haven’t been here--it’s the fridge. The food inside of the fridge and the cupboards are likely rotting. You can picture the mold in your mind already, and you shiver a little. Deciding that it’s better not to investigate further, you head straight upstairs instead.

On the way to your room, you can’t help but to pop open the doors and take a look inside. It’s just the paranoia now that’s making you do this. You don’t think you’ll find anyone in here, it’s just the thought of someone maybe hiding and waiting for you. A house like yours shouldn’t be in perfect condition, not after everything that’s happened.

And yet, there is nothing. Not even in your master bedroom, and not in the bathroom either. Despite this, you also lock your bedroom door, stripping on the way to the bathroom. And when you get inside of there, you lock that one too. For a second, the water in the shower runs cold, but then it turns warm.

While you let it heat up a little more, you take a look at yourself in the mirror for the first time in a couple of weeks. The mirrors that they have in District Thirteen are practically useless, they might as well not have them at all. You can barely see your face in them, and they’re permanently fogged over. At first, you thought that there was a protective film, until you realized that they were just shit quality.

Your fingers dance along the scars that cover you from head to toe. You turn your body to get a better angle, only to be disappointed when they continue. You force yourself to lean onto the counter, even though you’re so incredibly uncomfortable now, but curiosity is what’s fueling it all.

Then you’re able to see that the spider bite scars exist on your face too. They’re faint though, not too noticeable. What is noticeable, is the fact that there’s a scar that’s right beneath your eye. It’s so small that you can see it, even with you leaning over the counter.

You wipe the fog off the mirror, hopping onto the counter. You’re basically pressed against the mirror with how you’re seated as you desperately try to see what the fuck is beneath your eye. Wiping the mirror again, you take your chance to see.

C.S.

Your face twists as you back up, trying to think of who has those initials. Much less who would leave it on you like they’re marking their territory. You slide off the counter, rubbing beneath your eye, wishing that it’ll just go away, but it won’t.

Then it clicks, and you almost wish it hadn’t.

Coriolanus Snow.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, mouth hanging open as you watch the fog take over the mirror again, and your naked figure is covered up as a result.

He marked you. Snow fucking marked you like you’re his pet.

Your hand has swiped the vase off the counter before you’ve realized it. It isn’t until it’s shattered, when you’re jumping out of your skin. Even then, you’re still captivated by the amount of rage that’s running through your veins.

“Motherfucker!” you yell, digging your nail into the spot, gritting your teeth when it hurts. But it has to go. It has to be defaced. You won’t be seen as his. You don’t belong to Snow.

It’s a relief when your bare nail breaks skin. Though, more pain spikes in that one spot, and even in your eye a little bit. You lean on the counter, squeezing your eyes shut and giving yourself a moment to recover before you head into the shower.

You can’t fucking believe this.

You had always told yourself that you would be saving this dress for an occasion that you’d never be able to replicate. No weddings, funerals or parties. No victory tour, no get together, no reaping. You had to save it for something that would be groundbreaking, something that would change the game altogether.

At first, you didn’t want to pick it up for even this. Then you remembered that you have a chance of dying, and thought that was an event you’d never be able to replicate. Because you’d be dead.

And now that you’re walking to the justice buildings, holding the dress up so that it doesn’t get caught in the gravel and what lies inside of you, you’re beginning to see that you’ve got to make it count. Not the dress, but this entire encounter. If they don’t end up killing you, they’re definitely not going to let you come back again. Not peacefully, at least.

All you have to do is make them hesitate. Make them think for the rebel’s side for a second. That’s all you need. A moment of apprehension that they’ll never be able to take back. And since you’re pretty good at playing devil's advocate, this will be a walk in the park.

Seeing a sudden blast of dust and dirt heading your way, you make a home behind a building, aiming the umbrella you’re holding towards the corner that’s closest to you. It takes a moment before the dust storm comes through. The rocks pelt the plastic, and they attack your bare legs.

Since the umbrella is see-through, you’re able to tell when it dies down. You don’t wait to make sure that it’s over completely, because you never know when another gust will roll on in. At some point in time, you recognize the streets that the scouting group had brought you through, so you take that carefully.

You’re still fairly surprised that Paylor and Lyme hadn’t taken your statement of a survey group into consideration. And if they did, then that didn’t last as long as you thought it would. It’s literally only been two to three weeks since you were here last.

You guess that just means that they can’t spare the people as much as they could before. Which says a lot--that they’re losing the battle they swore that they’d be able to win. Coin said in one of her speeches that it wouldn’t be easy, and it would take a while. And here you are, thinking that you’ll be able to change their minds in a day.

“Watch this.” you smile to yourself.

You go around a corner, only to stop dead in your tracks. Standing right in front of you are some pretty armored people, holding a gun pointed straight at your chest.

“State your name and business.”

“I see Lyme’s upgraded her shitty guards.” you give him a smile, “(Y/n) Rosecelli.”

He lowers the gun, “You’re supposed to be in District Thirteen.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it seems.” you say, continuing your way down the alley, “Quite boring. Is Lyme in the justice building?”

“Yes, I can bring--”

“I’ve got it.” you cut him off, leaving him behind you.

“I wouldn’t recommend going that way.”

“Whatever!” you shout, going right out.

The steps to the building are pretty wrecked, but there’s just enough stone for you to be able to go up them. You hike the dress up a little higher, stomping your heels when you step, as you try to get the gravel and glass off your shoes. The people standing outside the building seem confused at first.

“Excuse me.” you say, moving right past them as you head through the doors.

You take the stairs up, still having an iron grip on the dress. You won’t let it down until you’re standing in front of rebels. You swear on everything.

You pass a third set of guards on your way inside of the meeting room that they had used the first time. When the door pops open, you can see a familiar face on the hologram screen. Alma Coin.

Paylor and Lyme look over simultaneously to see who’s entered the room.

“(Y/n)’s here.” Lyme says, standing up now.

“Good.” Coin says, “Won’t you join us?”

You make a face, stepping inside and shutting the door. You don’t head that far inside, sticking rather close to the door, but still in sight of the camera.

“Finnick’s been looking everywhere for you.” Coin tells you calmly, “We just broke the news to him.”

“And?” you ask.

“He’s disappointed that he went through all that trouble to throw a party for you.”

So that’s what he was doing earlier. Throwing you a party, and for what? God, you can’t imagine the headache you would have had through the whole thing. Fake a smile, pretend to like it. The only parties you do like are the types that go on inside of the Capitol.

It’s all lavish there. The foods are delicious, the sweets and the sour foods. The drinks they have that you swear are going to make you dehydrated, but you drink anyway. The people there are always so friendly, even when they aren’t. They’re so stupid and naive that it makes it enjoyable to be around them.

Not to mention they worshipped you.

“Am I supposed to care?” you ask, crossing your arms, “Can’t be a very good party with your district. The entire thing is probably being attended by a total of ten people, and the food and drinks are twenty years old. I’m not missing out on anything, trust me.”

Coin bites her tongue, smiling, “Maybe it’s best that you’re back in District Two, then.”

“I’m done talking to you.” you give her a mock smile, turning to Lyme and Paylor, “I’m going to solve this whole loyalist problem for you in a second. Do you want to send a camera crew with me just in case it works?”

Lyme’s confused, “No offense, but what makes you think it’ll work? Especially with your mouth?”

“Cause I know you guys have been approaching it all wrong, and rather than having a second person fuck it up for you ingrates, I’ll do it myself. I may be selfish but I’m also open minded and have a way of words when I’m not being a complete bitch.” you look at Coin, “And if it does work, you don’t get to say you planned it at all. I’m not Katniss, and I won’t be easily manipulated.

“On top of that, you’ll also owe me a shiny, brand new apartment in the heart of the Capitol. Otherwise you can take that propaganda footage and shove it up that ass of yours.” you point to Lyme and Paylor, “Camera crew, now.”

You leave the room after that, and Paylor approves the camera crew, asking one of the people in the room with them to go ahead and gather the people. In the meantime, you take a look at yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your makeup and hair are still how you left it, and the dress isn’t that dirty either.

When you get outside, there’s people already waiting to take you to the tunnels. And for their protection, they’re bringing volunteers with them. As for you, you’ll be out in the open just as you asked for.

“I live in luxury.” you tell yourself, raising your head a bit, “I belong in the Capitol. I am a loyalist. These rebels have no idea what they’re doing.”

You take the train tracks straight to the tunnel. The mountain has long since collapsed, which drew out most of the loyalists. And with Katniss’ speech after, a few surrendered. But there’s still plenty of people inside of there.

“I don’t know if we can follow you inside.” one of the girls tells you nervously, “It’s dark and unhealthy in there. If they begin firing, we’ll be the first to be brought down.”

“No, I will.” you say, “They’ll likely let you all live. If those cameras zoom well, keep as much of a distance as you can spare.”

The girl nods, “We trust you.”

You press your lips together, because it’s a first, “If I reach for my dress and turn my body like I’m going to run, you should take off immediately. I don’t plan on running, but I will if it gets too risky.”

“We’ll keep an eye out, I promise.”

Inside the tunnel, it’s even dirtier than you expected. Nonetheless, you all push through. The camera crew and the couple of armed people have masks over their face, but you work right through the dirt and smoke filled air. Even if you put a mask on now, you’ll have to take it off to talk anyway. There would be no point to it, you’re going to breathe in the air whether you like it or not.

“Stop!” A voice shouts, and you all come to a halt.

“Stay here.” you tell the crew.

Lights turn on, you cover your eyes for a moment as you blink through, trying to get adjusted to them. When you lower your hand, you can see that there’s several people ready to shoot you, and what looks like hundreds of people ready to back them up. The lights are coming from the train right in front of you.

“My name is (Y/n) Rosecelli, I’m here to speak to whoever is in charge, face to face.” you move forward, but stop a little bit after that, not wanting to push your limits.

Someone appears on the top of the train, an automatic rifle in his hands, “You shouldn’t be in here.”

You drop the dress down now, “No, I shouldn’t. This place is unfathomably filthy, and I can’t imagine how hard it is to breathe the air in here. What’s your name?”

“Jovian.”

“You know why I’m here, right?” you ask, crossing your arms, your eyes wandering over all the people waiting to see what happens.

“It’s pretty obvious, which is why I should let you know it’s not going to work, and you should leave while you can.” he tells you, “Or I’ll just make an example of you, just like how we did with Katniss.”

“Except Katniss is still alive in District Thirteen, you didn’t actually kill her.” you tell him, “Healthy as a horse, she was up on her feet the same day, ready to come right back here and give you guys a second chance.”

They won’t know you’re lying.

“We should’ve gone for her head.”

You ignore that, “There’s a big difference between Katniss and I, though. Katniss grew up in the poorest part of twelve, and I grew up in what was arguable once the richest parts of District Two. And then I won the games and got more money than I knew what to do with, and she didn’t have any time to get to realize her luxury.

“Because of this, she’ll never understand what you’ll have to sacrifice if you do take part in the fight. You’re putting everything up for a gamble. Your house, your clothes, furniture, a family. And you’d have to do it without knowing the outcome of a rebellion.”

Jovian nods slowly, “You get it.”

“Of course I do, I was once a Capitol pet too, and then Snow ended up killing my family, and then my friends on top of that.” you motion with your hand, “And I saw the type of people that we were supporting all this time. They’re nothing worth supporting, Jovian. I can promise you that.”

Jovian shakes his head, “What if you lose, huh? The district is already in deep shit because half of us are rebels, what if there’s a chance that the people who don’t fight with you, get rewarded?”

You snort, “You think he’s writing down names? You think he gives a shit if some of you were helping, and the others weren’t? All he’s going to see is that District Two had tried to help the rebels, and suddenly we’re all fucked. So why not give in? You know what will happen if there are no more hunger games, no more districts, no more districts versus the Capitol bullshit?

“You’d be able to live wherever you want--the Capitol, here, any of the other districts, places that were off limits, maybe even in some of the arenas that had gone untouched. You would work if you want to, and have a million kids without worrying about teaching them how to fight.

“There would be no more worries, Jovian. You’d still get to live the same, but it would be that much more freedom. And even if you wouldn’t want to live in any of those other places, you’d be able to visit them whenever you want. Take a vacation to the Capitol and come home to a sturdy house. And for anyone who hasn't found their soulmate because they exist in a different district, you’d have a greater chance of finding them.”

The silence that fills the tunnel is surprisingly calm, it isn’t as tense as you thought it would be. Jovian is obviously thinking all of this through.

“But we can’t win this without District Two. If we get those warehouses pumping out weapons, we’ll win this, guaranteed. It’ll be difficult, as all wars are, but we’ll win for once. We’ll get the justice we deserve, Snow will pay for all the shit he’s done.” you insist, “If you guys come with me now, there’s no hard feelings.

“There’s food, water, clothes, medicine. All you’d have to do is come with us now, and we’ll get you cleaned up, one at a time.”

Jovian looks down at you, “And you can promise us this?”

You look behind you, straight at one of the guards, “Get Paylor to confirm this.”

It takes a moment, but when her voice comes over the tunnel, echoing, saying all of what you said is true, you can’t help but to give a hopeful look to Jovian.

He takes in a deep breath, “Okay.”

“That’s just you, though.” you look to all the others, past the lights, “How about you guys? Are you willing to fight?”

“Will you be fighting with us?” someone yells to you.

This question you weren’t expecting, but you find yourself nodding before you can catch it, “Every step of the way.”

“Then sign me up.” A girl starts coming forward, behind her trails a couple of kids, they come in a line, all holding hands. She walks right past you guys.

It takes a moment before others start breaking off in groups. Jovian gives you a look, “These are my people.”

“They’re our people now.” You correct him, “And they’re going to be safe. Pack the hurt into the train and get this baby moving out here.”

You turn around, heading towards the camera, “Is it still running?”

“Yes.”

You look straight into the camera lense, “Twenty-three kids have died every year for the past seventy-four years. That’s one thousand, seven hundred and one kids that have died in the hunger games. Nearly two thousand of your kids have gone into an arena, scared and alone.

“They wouldn’t know where their next meal would come from, they didn’t know if they would get sponsors or if they were worthy of them. They likely shivered and starved and were dehydrated down to their very last days. And while it was happening, all they could picture was their blue face in the night sky, signaling another fallen tribute.

“And you’re telling me, that now there’s a rebellion happening--one that will stop a cycle of heartless and meaningless murder--you’re not going to help? You’ll finally be able to have kids, and not worry about training them the moment that they’re born. No more staying up all night worrying that it’ll be your kid picked during the reaping.

“But we can’t get there if you don’t help.” You then lean a forward, “And Coriolanus, if you’re watching, I’d like to let you know that I found the scar you left on my face. You can mark me all you fucking want, but I haven’t done your bidding since I was sixteen. How’s this for calming down District Two?”

You stand up again, “For those of you who don’t know, my name is (Y/n) Rosecelli, I won the sixty-sixth hunger games when I was sixteen. I’m from District Two, and I have to admit that I have lived in luxury since the day I was born, and coming to terms with a rebellion that has ruined my whole lifestyle, isn’t easy.

“However, if I can see past all my greediness to realize that it’s unfair that I can live in luxury and others live in dirt, then you can too. There will be no more inequality, everyone will be able to live in a stable environment, and if you don’t want that, then you’re just as ill as Snow is.”

You turn to leave after that, hiking up the dress in the front so you don’t end up stepping on it and make a fool out of yourself in the process. It’s a couple of moments before the others are scrambling to follow.

“Are you really going to fight with us?” The girl asks.

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

She’s quiet for a moment, “You just don’t look like you’d been into that type of thing.”

You look at her, “Don’t be fooled by the dress and makeup. I’m a lot more than a pretty face.”

“We’ll have to get you fitted for clothing, then. You can’t march to the Capitol in a dress.”

You end the conversation, not saying anything else to her. What she said is obvious, you know that you’ll have to be dressed properly. Hell, you know what’s happening in the Capitol at the moment.

Nothing slips past you. You hear everything when it comes to secrets. You knew Johanna had been waterboarded because she failed some sort of swimming test, nearly took down a couple of people during her panic. And you knew that her and Blight were a little more than friends too.

Just like how you know that the Capitol is turning into a whole trap. Snow is planting these pods—as Beetee called them—that are near impossible to keep track of. Snow is pulling in the Capitol citizens closer, allowing him to plant more pods. Hundreds of them, every single day.

Which means that if you go out there with the other volunteers, there’s a good chance of a million things happening to you. You can’t even think of what the gamemakers would put into the streets of the Capitol. All you know is that it can’t be good.

They might as well throw in every single project that they’ve ever created since they won’t be able to use it against you all in the future. And in that case, you might not want to be in the streets of the Capitol after all.

Right when you leave the train station, there’s a giant dumpster waiting for the people leaving the tunnel. They’re forced to give up their weapons so that they can pass into the team of medics that are waiting. As you get closer, you’re able to see that there’s no struggle. Most give up their weapons without a fight, but some are a little hesitant to do so.

You and the camera crew pass by it easily, none of you are holding a significant weapon, and if you are, you’re all rebels anyway. They’re not worried about you guys turning on them, it’s more like the newly rebels that are just coming out of the tunnel.

Past all the disarming, is the group of medics that wait for everyone who makes it past the tunnel. It takes a bit for you and the camera crew to get through the dense crowd that only gets bigger. Just before you break the last line of people, you can hear the train’s horn, warning everyone that it’s coming.

Then, you get through.

Waiting on the other side of the crowd is Lyme, with a particularly impressed look on her face.

“Maybe we should have sent you in, initially.” Lyme says, “You did it effortlessly.”

“If any of you had bothered to tell me before sending Katniss in, I would have told you it was a bad idea.” You take a look behind you, “And by the way, this is a perfect example of what you should do when it comes to the Capitol citizens.”

“Want to be put in charge of that?” Lyme offers.

Your head whips towards her, “I will not play devil's advocate for them. That’s your fucking problem to sort.”

“It was just an offer.” Lyme says, but you’re already leaving towards the justice building again. Lyme’s quite taller than you, so it takes basically no effort when it comes to catching up with you, “While you were gone, Coin had someone flown in.”

You can’t help but let out a snort, “Oh, whoever should that be?”

After what you said to Coin, it’s no surprise to you. She would pull some bullshit like this to make you angry. It’s just her little form of payback.

“He’s waiting at your house.”

You look at her, “You had him escorted to my house?”

“He wouldn’t shut up about it. Gave him basic instructions to get to victor’s village, and then told him yours is the only one that hasn’t been touched.”

“Speaking of which, why is that?” you fix a curl that’s fallen into your face.

“Honestly, no clue.” Lyme says, “Good luck with Finnick.”

“Right.”

Lyme and the camera crew break off when you reach the justice building. From there, one single person brings you as far as they’re allowed to go into the town part of District Two, and then they head back to where they had been standing before you stumbled along.

You’re nearly home when your feet start to ache from the heels. And if it weren’t for the fact that the dirt is mixed in with glass, you might have taken the heels right off and walked barefoot the rest of the way. Before the rebellion, you definitely would have done that. Regardless of how people would feel about it.

Victor’s village still looks shitty, there’s not much to expect from it in the first place. It’s not like it’s going to have changed in the past hour or two. Although, you thought that you might find Finnick poking around in the abandoned, charcoal black houses.

Through the first arch and into the second reveals your perfect house. The door is shut--so it looks like Finnick knows his manners--and you don’t waste time going inside.

Swinging the door open, you make a point to slam it shut when you get inside. You don’t even move from the doorway before you’re tearing the heels off your feet, massaging them one at a time. Then, you head upstairs to your room.

If Finnick wants to speak, Finnick can come and find you. He invited himself to District Two, he was able to find your house, he’ll be able to find you.

Or rather, the other way around.

Finnick’s lounging on your bed when you walk in. In his hand he holds a book with your face on it. You can’t help but roll your eyes--that book was forced on you by Snow. He thought it was a good idea to draw in more attraction to you. And unfortunately it worked, and after that, you spent a couple more weeks than you were meant to, inside of the Capitol.

Of course, it ran short when everyone heard about your sour attitude, no matter what time of the day it was. People revoked their… reservations, and you were forced to go home.

“Welcome.” you say bitterly, opening the wardrobe doors and tossing your shoes inside, then you unzip the dress from the back with little to no problem.

“So the friendliness didn’t last long.” Finnick sounds amused, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, you can see that it’s not how he’s feeling. There’s a hint of a scowl on his face, maybe some touch of annoyance.

“Thank god.” you hang the dress up, then you close the wardrobe door and move onto the bathroom.

You tear off everything that you wouldn’t normally wear. The bracelets, earrings, rings. The only thing you leave is the necklace Tanith gave you, otherwise it’s all gone. And as soon as you get into the bathroom, it’s tossed into the jewelry drawer, which is absolute hellfire to sift through.

Finnick follows you to the bathroom, and watches as you remove the makeup, unphased by the fact that you’re half naked again, “Did you actually mean any of it?”

You pause for a moment, “Mean what? What I said to Johanna? Every word, she fucking asked for it. Antagonizing me and all that, she should have seen it coming.”

“The apology.” Finnick clarifies.

“I meant that, yes.” there’s no hesitation.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” he turns and leaves the bathroom.

“So now what?” you call, “You’re going back to District Thirteen?”

Finnick laughs, “Dream on.”

You roll your eyes, “It was worth a shot.”

“Your house smells like shit, by the way.”

“It’s the kitchen, feel free to clean it out if it bothers you that much. I just figured that this house would be blown to bits the second Snow gets a chance because of what I said.”

“Speaking of which.” Finnick comes back, he’s got some clothes for you hanging over his arm, “The front lines?”

You scowl at him a little bit, “Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude to go through someone’s clothes? And yes, the front lines.”

Regardless, you pull on the shorts and shirt after tossing the makeup wipes away. You unpin your hair, letting it all fall into place unnaturally, which causes you to just pull it right back up into a ponytail anyway to keep it out of your face.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

You side-eye him, “Let me guess, you’re coming along?”

Finnick smiles, “You know me better than I thought.”

“No, you just have a thing for following me around, so I figured. Just like how Lyme didn’t even have to say your name, and I knew you came.” you grin a little, “How was the party, by the way?”

“Surprisingly boring without you there.”

“You’re saying that I’m entertainment?” you ask.

“The best.” Finnick smiles.

#ilguna #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair metanoia #metanoia #metanoia chapter fifteen

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dragonswithjetpacks · 4 years ago

Text

Campfire Conversations

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Astarion is bored at camp. And his target for the night... is Ferelith. Through persistence and bribery, she indulges him in casual conversation.

Read here on Ao3.

Despite the three bedrolls she had placed next to the fire, Ferelith still found it difficult to gain any comfort. She rolled up one side, placed her pillows against, and even placed a rock behind them to prop them well enough to use as a backing. She sat upright, flipping through her book, sketching in magic symbols and making small notes. At her side was another set of smaller books, one she would thumb through on occasion to double check her accuracy. All was quiet other than the whispers from the fire, which was precisely what she had asked for. But then again, there was always one who was never too keen to listen to what she wanted.

"What are you doing?" he announced his presence, bending over her shoulder as he peered into her book.

Ferelith blinked disapprovingly, giving him a side glance from the corner of her eye.

"Ah, yes, you're quite right," he sighed. "I don't care... I'm bored."

Again, she said nothing, but he took her silence as an invitation. He stepped over the log onto her blanket, with his boots still on, making her cringe as the dirt made a subtle foot print. He sat next to her, propping himself on one of her pillows. It appeared it was not good enough. And he removed it, fluffing it to perfection before placing it behind him once more.

"That was accident," he winced at the wrinkled and dirtied mess he left in his wake.

Kicking his feet to the side, he straightened his corner and brushed the dirt off lightly. It mattered little, as she had already to planned to wash it the moment he placed his boots onto her finely stitched threads. Her annoyance was made quite clear with a loud sigh, her book slowly lowering to her lap.

"I suppose I'm the one lucky enough to oblige you tonight," her face was calm but he could feel the irritation burning into him. "What would you ask of me?"

"You could light someone on fire," he shrugged with his bottom lip sticking out.

Her eyes shifted upward in thought of the idea. "I could. But I'm afraid I'm not so amused by your form of entertainment."

"You would be if you'd let me show you," he raised a brow.

Much to his disappointment, the only reply she gave was yet another one of her famous blank stares. He wondered where she went sometimes when she looked at him like that. Any normal person would have thoughts filled with disgust, though that was only humorous and much to his liking. But Ferelith was different than most. The look was usually empty. It was only until recently he noticed her eyes would often widen and her lip would curl upward at one corner. At least he knew he got some kind of rise from her.

"Where did you get those books?" he asked when he noticed he was losing her attention.

Ferelith was not easily distracted. When she was focused, there was nothing that could tear her eyes away. He had discovered this, unfortunately, through a series of trial and error in an attempt to know her true nature. Most things ended in eye rolls, rarely out of annoyance, but mostly with sarcasm. There were also multiple occasions where he was completely ignored. Which he found rude, but reasonable. It was actually a bit of a surprise she was speaking to him, now.

"A bookshop," she replied, tilting the book back up.

"Not an ordinary bookshop."

Her eyes flicked in his direction.

"Let's see," he picked a few of them up, many no bigger than a pocket book. "Arcane, Illusion, Mystic Runes... my, my... these look handwritten for personal use."

"Put those back where you found them, please," she commanded without so much as a glance.

"These look like spell books," he began to flip through the pages of one. "If I had to guess, anyway. I'm usually decent at guessing, though."

"You know if you look through the grimoire of another without permission, you'll gain the hex of that grimoire."

He suddenly dropped all three. Ferelith smiled wildly, her eyes still scanning the runes in her larger book. He hadn't noticed before, but while she was writing with one hand, the other held a book in place, often darting to another to scour through it's pages. It was like they had to separate minds of their own. The hand writing or sketching was moving very fast, but her penmanship was impeccable. He leaned over - careful not to disturb her- and saw she was copying whatever she was scanning from the other, smaller books.

"These are your grimoires?"

"No," she replied.

"So how is it you are able to look at them?"

"I have permission."

"I don't understand how someone so straightforward can have so much mystery about them," he shrugged. "It's somehow both annoying and attractive."

"That's precisely the impression I aim for," she smiled again, smaller and sweeter this time.

The sigh that came from him was intentionally loud enough for Ferelith to look up from her work. She observed her companion pull himself onto his feet, placing his hands on his hips next to her bedrolls. He looked about the camp when suddenly, he had a reasonably good idea. She had hoped his walking away would mean he had given up. On the contrary, however, she watched him walk over to Gale's things and begin to rummage through them. Suddenly, Ferelith was intrigued with the rogue. More than likely, she was interested to see if he got caught. Unfortunately, he did not. Instead, he came waltzing back across the camp with a rather large pep to his step, a large bottle in one hand and a goblet in the other.

Careful not to defile her blankets a second time, he seated himself next to her, closer than before. He fought with the cork inside the bottle for a moment, but sent it sailing into the air with a loud pop with the edge of his knife. He poured himself a glass, brought it to his nose, and inhaled it deeply followed by a satisfying exhale. He looked to Ferelith, who had regretfully not been able to look away. He had to admit, he won half the battle. But as he held up the wine as an offering, he felt there was more of a fight to be had. Ferelith rolled her eyes. Reached over to a flat stone next to her blankets. And grabbed her empty goblet. She reluctantly held it out as he poured the contents into her cup. There was no hesitance as she brought it to her lips, her eyes dropping back down into the book without any further acknowledgement to Astarion.

"I don't even get a thank you," he complained.

"Thank you," she said before looking into the goblet a second time. "This is actually... quite nice."

"I hear the words, but I don't really feel the gratitude."

Ferelith looked up, finally giving him the contact he craved. There was always something unsettling he found looking into her eyes. They were yellow. But not like fire or the sun... no. Her eyes were pale. Like that of a once green plant craving attention; something to hydrate it, nutrients from the soil, or even just love.

"Fine," she said, tapping the ink to make sure it was dry before snapping the book shut. "I will indulge you."

"Words I've been waiting for all night," he shook his head and leaned forward.

Ferelith sat her work beside her, pulling her knees up and turning to her side. Her robe was of black lace and didn't do anything to add to comfort or practicality. But if there was one thing the traveling band of misfits learned about the warlock, it was that she wasn't always about the practical use of an item. She was very fond of beautiful things. And as she considered Astarion, she was inclined to admit the she was fond of his beauty as well. He knew this, using it to his advantage and tempted her at every chance he received. Ferelith was fully aware of the predicament she had somehow placed herself into. Which gave her more reason to ignore him. And as obvious as she made it, that did not prevent him from trying. Relentlessly.

"Tell me about the books," he said, propping his arm onto the rock they were leaning on.

"They were the last of a collection I was working on in the city."

"Anything interesting?"

"Just old spells and runes. Nothing anyone uses anymore. I've been transcribing them. They're spell books of old witches: long forgotten, tossed aside, half rotten old books."

"Witches you say?" he recoiled.

"Oh, yes. I believe there are a few useful things in here for banishments of the undead. If you're interested."

"Gods, no," he laughed, taking a sip of his wine. "But tell me more."

"I have one necromancy tome," she rolled over onto her knees. "And it's interesting. Not what I'm looking for, but interesting," she began to fan out her collection on the blankets.

Astarion leaned forward to examine them further.

"My job at the bookshop was to take these old grimoires and write them down into the bigger blank tomes. The ones that I found useful, I kept for myself. This is what is left of my findings. And the remains of my last project."

"What did you mean by 'what you were looking for'? Is there a certain spell you're seeking?"

"Not necessarily a spell. Just a translation."

"Have you had any luck?"

"A few words here and there."

"May I see the book you're translating?"

"Absolutely not," her eyes felt as cold as her reply.

"Ah, I see I'm reaching my limit for the night," he said with a tone of disappointment.

Astarion had grown accustomed to his interactions with his warlock companion being cut short. Rather it was her own doing or the work of another, he found their conversations always disrupted. It was a shame, truly, as he assumed Ferelith was the type to hold secrets. Even some that did not belong to her. The woman had been alive for quite sometime, though not nearly as long as he had. But he imagine there was something worth telling within the few lifetimes she had lived.

"Not necessarily," she replied lightheartedly. "After all, you've found this lovely bottle of wine."

"Humoring me for the sake of the wine, then?" a brow went up in confidence.

"I doubt I'd humor you for little else," her smirk was mocking his excitement.

"Remind to thank Gale in the morning, then," his mood went undisturbed. "I'd like to know how it is you intend to humor me now that books are off the table."

"Is that all you think I talk about?"

"I don't know," he shook his head, knowing she took the bait. "I've never heard you have a full conversation. With anyone."

"I converse very well, thank you," she took a sip of her wine. "I've just been lacking good company."

"You wound me," he lowered his gaze, but the tone was of sarcasm and he watched the corner of Ferelith's mouth turn upward.

Success.

"What is it you wish to discuss?"

"Discuss? I've no taste for lectures, my darling. I require something a bit more refined, something provocative. Tell me something interesting."

"Something interesting?" she appeared to be offended, her voice raising in pitch. "Well for one, when you strike a conversation with a person of interest, it's usually polite not to demand it from them."

"Very well," he rolled his eyes. "Tell me something interesting, please. I know you've got something just waiting to be told."

"If you're looking for exciting tales, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong colleague."

"No? Nothing, say, of your youth?"

"I assure my you, my early years are beyond dull."

"Surely not," he tilted his head down. "You have nothing? Dangerous spells? A jilted lover? A need for vengeance? Everyone has a decent vengeance story."

This time Ferelith laughed, tilting her head to the side away from him. But the sight of the smile caused him to straighten where he sat, leaning forward to see it fully. She rose a hand a to cover her mouth, but it was not enough for him to go without noticing... she was embarrassed.

"No vengeance here, I'm afraid," she looked back to him, her eyes meeting his. "But I suppose if you're interested in a horrible love story, I could tell you of my stay in Neverwinter..."

"Horrible as in tragic... or horrible as in just bad."

"Both," she nodded a finger to him.

"Even better!" he seemed overjoyed.

"Fine, fine. But I'll need a refill," she said passing her goblet to him.

Like the gentleman he was, he poured it for her. A bit too close to the edge, but he was eager for her to start the story to notice. She took a long drink, letting the contents give her the courage she needed. This was a bit of a defeat for her, but she was willing to let it go for the sake of his amusement. It was something to catch her attention, but to make her laugh was a feat of it's own. There was a sliver of a thought that perhaps she had misjudged him.

"This story is so humiliating. I can't believe I'm telling you," she shifted in her seat.

"Get on with it, then," he urged her to continue.

"Mind you, I had never been to a city before. Not even close to one. And I had just gotten a taste of what it felt like to wield magic. I found myself in the streets of Neverwinter in search for more knowledge. But I had no idea how to survive. There were so many others like me, just a crowd of beggers looking for work."

"Yes, I am aware. There are plenty of people swimming the streets looking for a better life in the city. A plague on society. Honestly."

"Indeed," Ferelith sighed, recalling the annoyance of the people who tormented her for those years of her life. "I offered my services. But found little coin in it. No one took my work seriously and no one was willing to give me the chance. I found myself resorting to other means of earning an income. Means that required a certain charisma."

"The vagueness of your statements is dramatic, but do go on."

"I acted as a smuggler," the bluntness returned. "It gave me good coin and the jobs I was hired to perform often involved a change of wardrobe. I was no good with the actual act of stealing or sneaking. A sleight of hand on occasion, but never anything that tactful. I was only a cover for whatever it was that I was charged with moving. It eventually earned me enough to rent a loft where I proceeded with my studies and transcribing work."

"Just a moment," he held out a hand to pause her. "The coin from working jobs like that... I don't believe that's enough for what had acquired."

"You are aware there are other ways of obtaining what is needed," the complacency in her tone was met with a guiltless stare. "Seduction."

"I'm starting to believe this woman you speak of is no longer with us," he teased with an exaggerated smile. "This talk of charisma and seduction, I've yet to see it."

"It's not for you to see," the wrinkle of frustration set on her brow and she turned her head, taking another long drink of wine. "I was young. And equally ignorant."

A long pause fell across Ferelith as she looked down into her cup. She could feel the affects and wished it would make the rest of the story a bit easier to tell. It was only a reminder of her failures. She wondered why she chose this to tell of all things. A jilted lover was not worth what she lost. With a deep breath holding back her hesitancy, she pressed on.

"There was a man who requested my services. He was a young human noble from a prosperous family of wizards. Nothing to himself, really, but he had access to the city. The fool that I was decided he was an easy way out of the slums. I charmed him, convincing him he was infatuated with me. And when it wore off, he was too polite to deny that he had invited me out for dinner."

"Commendable, if not a questionable choice," Astarion hid his surprise.

"The idea was to charm him at least in the beginning. And it worked," she shrugged. "I had charmed him enough times that he had fallen in love with me. Not entirely on his own, but still... it was his decision to place a ring on my hand."

"A ring?" he nearly choked on his wine. "You were betrothed?"

Ferelith slowly shook her head.

"You were married?"

"I was," her reply was far too calm for his liking.

An image flashed into his head. A memory he had once borrowed from her. He recalled the face of a young elven. Handsome. Proper. Filled with joy. But the way she spoke of him did not reflect the feeling he had felt when she looked at him that night. Then again, it was a human she had wed.

"Well," he cleared his throat. "I've dealt with this sort of thing in the past, but I don't think I've-"

"Astarion," she cut him off, causing him to look at her. "He's dead."

"He won't be a threat, then. Good," his face lightened. "Not that I was worried. But his death makes things much easier."

The sweet smile of hers came back onto resisting lips. The flirtatious advancements were completely unnecessary, as she was already glowing with a buzz from the wine. She blamed that rather than admitting she was getting any sort of feelings from Astarion at all. His confidence told him otherwise and he refused to be wrong. The more straightforward he was about it, the further it would take him.

"You didn't kill him, did you?"

A laugh burst from her, nearly causing her to spill her wine. "By the Hells, no. It's been nearly twenty years since his death, Astarion."

"I'm only making sure," he shrugged, a victorious grin spreading. "One can never be too careful."

"I take it your life has been threatened by other lovers of your past?"

"Other lovers?" he snapped his head, his brow lowering and his eyes watching her reaction deviously. "Are you considering yourself as a lover?"

Ferelith opened up her mouth to object. But her thoughts had halted her from answering. She did, in fact, word her previous sentence to include herself. Deciding there was no way around, she stared at him blinking unapologetically.

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

"No," she found herself unable to hold back.

"It's too late, I've already taken the first answer into consideration. And I'm very pleased to accept. You can't take it back, darling."

He took a sip of his wine, quite satisfied with the outcome and himself. Ferelith was not finished. However, the night had seemed rather pleasant and she felt genuine joy from their conversation. She allowed him to have his victory, if for anything, for making her laugh. It would be nice to have at least one good thing to remember him by if there ever came another time she considering slitting his throat.

"You'll have to tell me about them," she swirled her goblet.

"They're not important," he waved a hand casually. "Besides, you still haven't finished your tale."

"It's nothing, really," she looked down, not wanting to go into further detail."I lived the luxurious life of a noble for sometime. But it wasn't enough for me. I was greedy, stealing from the hands that were already willing to give."

"Naughty girl," his eyes widened.

Again, Ferelith smiled. "I was eventually discovered with nothing to blame but my own pride. I left behind everything. All my work, gone. Everything I cherished, gone. All my beautiful things... gone."

"Do I sense a bit of regret?"

The smile faded into a disgusted frown, a crease forming at the bridge of her nose. "The only thing I regret is allowing another man to become involved. If it wasn't for him, I would have likely inherited my own estate."

"And so the plot is revealed," Astarion tilted his goblet. "Alas, the husband was not the jilted lover after all."

"No. Just an impatient fool."

"So... you did intend to kill the husband."

"For purposes I'd like to remain unknown, I refuse to acknowledge you," Ferelith sat down her empty goblet. "But I feel no guilt for him. Either of them. I am only convicted with my own stupidity for allowing myself to lose everything that I had worked so hard for."

"It's a shame to lose such status... but still, there's nothing wrong with a fresh start," he replied flatly.

"Sometimes," she said with a sigh, "you must be stripped of everything before you can know true power."

Astarion looked at her with a cause for concern, noting the kindness in her voice. He seemed surprised and even somewhat shaken, lacking a voice for a response. But he quickly recovered and the usual smirk crept onto his face.

"If that's a way to say you'd like to remove my clothes, then I'd love to know your true power."

"Alright," Ferelith placed her hands across her lap. "I believe I've had enough for one evening."

"Already?" he whined. "We haven't finished the bottle."

"You are more than welcome to finish it... alone."

"No, no," he sat it down beside her. "You'll be up all night working. Take the bottle and relax. You've earned it."

"I'm flattered," she took the bottle by the neck. "Good night, Astarion."

The elf rose to his feet, dusting off his knees, leaving behind the empty goblet he brought with him. He gave one final bow to his companion.

"Good night, my darling."

#astarion #astarion fic #astarion fluff #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #ferelith #ferelith moonshade #oc origin #dwjp writing tag #ferelith writing tag

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curiosity-killed · 4 years ago

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a bow for the bad decisions: chapter 13

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(on ao3)

The sects squabble over what’s left of Wei Wuxian in the Burial Mounds. There’s no body to claim or burn, so they rise up against each other over scraps and trinkets. Jiang Cheng can’t bring himself to enter the cave where he last saw his brother alive; he stands still and turned away from all of it, somehow removed from his own body. Around him, the little village smolders and charred walls collapse into the ash. Bodies are borne down the mountainside where possible. The dead outnumber the living now even with the Seal destroyed, and there are some so thoroughly shredded that it’s impossible to tell which body the parts belong to. No one says what happened to the Wen remnants, but Jiang Cheng can see the seals and wards half-burnt across the houses, closing them off and preventing entry. None of the seals would stop the wood from burning. Turning away from them, Jiang Cheng holds tight to Sandu and lets Bujue and Xingtao handle the other sects. His palms still ring with the memory of vibrations, the echoes of his brother’s last gasps.

Around him, he hears murmurs, unquiet complaints about Yunmeng Jiang taking Wei Wuxian’s sword. No one can find Chenqing, and without the flute as a prize, the Jin sect in particular grows petulant. One of their disciples whines too close to Jiang Cheng about unreasonableness, and Jiang Cheng feels something cold and vicious rise in his chest. He turns to them, jaw tight and a sneer curling his lips.

“He was a disciple of Yunmeng Jiang and I’m the one who killed him,” he spits. “Remind me, what did you do?” Jin Guangyao hurries up then, already trying to make peace with blood and ash still staining his cream robes. Jiang Cheng swallows bile and doesn’t let himself reach for the flute hidden in his sleeve. He returns to Lotus Pier with four disciples dead and his brother’s blood still soaked into his sleeves. Their party is silent, grey-faced and withdrawn. Bujue holds himself with a fragile stiffness as if he is held upright by only fraying force of will. Xingtao healed the gash cutting across the left side of his face back in the Burial Mounds, but a thin thread of black remains through it, like the resentment wove itself into his skin. They land before the gate and Jiang Cheng tries not to feel the warm loop around his wrist. His stomach is empty from throwing up everything back in the ashes of their victory, and it gives a hollow twist, queasy. When they first returned to Lotus Pier after the war, their home was rife with ghosts. So many had died violent deaths here, had been tortured, murdered, desecrated. They had spent three weeks liberating trapped spirits, burying their bodies, completing their last wishes. He had known almost every spectral face that appeared, bloodied and wailing, before them. Some were so badly damaged that they had been little more than convoluted knots of resentment and pain, faces torn away so that they barely even resembled the humans they once were. Wei Wuxian had been the one to handle these. He’d sit in lotus position, palms upturned in offering, and let them show him their stories. Jiang Cheng had sat beside him throughout, one hand clinging to Sandu and the other tight around Wei Wuxian’s own clarity bell. Each time, Wei Wuxian had pulled out of Empathy looking half-spectral, drawn thin as fog. Jiang Cheng would help him to his feet, keep his arm close when Wei Wuxian stumbled. He was always quieter afterwards, too, as if he had used up all that frenetic energy that usually animated him. “When’d you become so good at Empathy, anyway?” Jiang Cheng had asked once, when they were walking back to their rooms. The last spirit had been particularly brutal; one of their shimeis, who had tried to stand up for their littlest disciples, and had earned herself a tortuously slow death. She’d joined the sect around the same time as Wei Wuxian and had always been bright and fearless. There had been tears running down Wei Wuxian’s cheeks before he slipped out of the connection. Now, his lips twisted and he looked away, out into the lake-dark night. There were shadows in his eyes, edges to his tight expression that looked like hunger manifested in bone. “I had practice,” he said, and Jiang Cheng had wanted to press, to ask when and where and why — but he shied away from the knife-sharp cracks in his brother’s eyes. Lotus Pier has long since been cleansed, but Jiang Cheng walks haunted through its halls all the same. His feet carry him to his brother’s room, and he slides open the door half-expecting to see Wei Wuxian hunched over his desk, scribbling away at some design. He opens it to emptiness instead. It’s been almost two years since his brother lived here, and the room is far tidier than he ever kept it. Bedding sits neatly folded on his mattress; all the drawers are closed. Swallowing, Jiang Cheng forces himself to step inside and close the door behind him. It’s too neat, too still and swept, but it still looks like Wei Wuxian’s room. There are his brushes and here, an unfinished drawing. He picks it up carefully, holds it gingerly in his calloused hands. The three of them form a small triangle on the paper, black strokes sketching out their smiles and hair. There are rabbits in their laps, and he realizes abruptly that he remembers this moment. That last day at Cloud Recesses, the last morning of their childhood, even if they’d had no idea at the time. There’s something choking in his throat, a chrysanthemum unfurling all its fine white petals. Wei Wuxian must have started painting it in the days before Baifeng Mountain. Care has been taken with both a-jie and Jiang Cheng’s forms, their faces delicately drawn with warm smiles. The lines run out along Wei Wuxian’s figure, his arms posed as if to reach both of them but unfinished, his face sketched as if he couldn’t quite remember it. A white gap separates him from them, bleeds into the space between the lines. His hands are shaking, he realizes distantly. The paper flutters between his fingers, desperate little wingbeats. Setting it down, he forces himself to straighten and turn away. There’s a chest along the far wall where Wei Wuxian always kept little trinkets that somehow mattered to him. Father had given him the box himself years ago, back when Wei Wuxian first came to them and never quite trusted that he got to keep the things he was given. It’s spelled, warded against decay or intrusion. Even the Wen fires couldn’t touch it when the rest of Lotus Pier burned. Laying his palm flat on the lid, Jiang Cheng can feel his brother’s own additions to the protections hum against his skin. The energy is still so alive, still contentedly ringing the entire box. Even now, it feels like him — feels like Wei Wuxian’s bright laughter and his solid shoulder shoved against Jiang Cheng’s arm. If he closes his eyes, Jiang Cheng can almost imagine he’s here, almost believe that the qi he feels is from his brother’s singing core and not this lifeless box, this tiny vault of precious nothings. He doesn’t let himself. Releasing a shaking breath, he shifts his hand so that he can try to open the lid. Mostly, he isn’t expecting to be able to. Wei Wuxian surely warded the chest against opening to any but his own hands. Instead, the lid lifts easily at his touch. Guilt tugs in his gut at this silent permission, at the implicit trust even now, even after all he’s done. Within the chest are little mementos from throughout their life: the nine-petaled lotus hairpin a-jie had given Wei Wuxian the day they received their courtesy names, an old grass toy from when they were young, a copy-book from Cloud Recesses with ‘Cangse Sanren’ inked neatly into its cover. His hand shakes as he pulls Chenqing from his sleeve and lays her to rest among them. He closes the doors behind them and then seals them, bringing up his hands to write a tight array to lock the room from inside or out. There’s a hum, a faint shimmer through the walls as his qi writes new protections into them. It’s wasteful. Excessively indulgent. The rooms should be used, after all, and Wei Wuxian won’t be returning to claim them himself. Pathetic, he hears in Mother’s voice. Lowering his hands, Jiang Cheng closes his fingers around Zidian’s ring. It’s temporary. Compartmentalization in its most physical form. He’ll sort through Wei Wuxian’s things and empty out the room eventually but not — not yet. He can’t yet, can’t bear to walk back into that room, much less close himself off enough to divvy up Wei Wuxian’s belongings and give them away. Once he’s had some time, once his robes aren’t stiff with his blood. He’ll get to it then. Suibian is placed on a rack in the ancestral shrine, another insult his mother never would have permitted. He thinks briefly that he should at least clean the blade before setting it away — but some of the Jin disciples had tried unsheathing it in the Burial Mounds and found the sword sealed. So loyal, he thinks around a knot in his throat as he lifts the sleek wood scabbard. Wei Wuxian would never believe it, that he could inspire such love and devotion. Jiang Cheng should have done a better job of telling him, should have done something, anything to protect him, to stop it from going so far—

Thank you.

The sobs tear out of him, hideous and heaving. His shoulders shudder beneath the gales of his grief, and tears run down his cheeks like rain. He killed him. He killed him. His brother is never coming back. He’ll never get to tell him, never get to apologize or hug him or be dragged into mischief by him. His brother’s gone and he’s the one who did it. He’s the one who killed him and for what? For the mercies of a sect that would see them all bled dry? For a reprieve from the whispers and gossips of cultivators who never bothered to know his brother as anything other than a leashed hound? He’ll never get to see their nephew. He’ll never get to find that shishu who so impressed him. He’ll never get to come home again because Jiang Cheng killed him and let him be torn apart by the world’s anger. His knees buckle, fold beneath him, and he crumples over them. He’s gone. He’s gone he’s gone he’s gone— Huddled over his blood-soaked skirts, Jiang Cheng weeps. He’s still crouched there hours later, tears dried and throat choked, when Bujue finds him. “Zongzhu?” he asks. Trembling, Jiang Cheng keeps his head bowed and refuses to look up. A small hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “Zongzhu, Xiong-daifu is waiting to see you,” Bujue says gently. For what? He’s not the one who’s injured. He’s not the one who needs saved. It’s too late. He’d told Wei Wuxian to see Xiong Chunfeng back when all this began — could they have avoided it if he’d only pushed him to do it? He was Wei Wuxian’s sect leader, he could have ordered him. Would they have known, then, what Wei Wuxian was hiding? Would that have changed anything at all? “Zongzhu,” Bujue says. A tremor runs through his voice. “Zongzhu, please. We can’t lose you, too.” Fear and grief shake through his tone, rendering him impossibly young. He’s only twenty, still. A year younger than Jiang Cheng, orphaned like him. Meishan was taken a week before Lotus Pier, with greater skill and fewer deaths, but Bujue’s parents had both fought back. They’d been among the first to die, alongside his older sister. ��Why,” Jiang Cheng manages to whisper. “Why, Bujue? Why did he do it?” He tilts his face up now, even as his eyes burn with all the tears he’s shed in this silent shrine. Bujue’s lips tremble, dark eyes wet, as he shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know. I thought — I thought we were going to get him back, zongzhu.” Tears slip down his cheeks, make his dark eyes seem doe-like and childish. The scar that cuts along his brow and down his cheek looks misplaced, wrong, juxtaposed with his wide eyes. The sight jolts something within Jiang Cheng, makes him draw in a shaking breath. He’s the sect leader. He’s the eldest disciple left of Yunmeng Jiang. An old coldness slips over his skin, the armor of the war coming back to cover him. Pushing himself to his feet, Jiang Cheng reaches out to grip Bujue’s shoulder briefly. He’s never been good at comfort. Jie could always soothe hurts away with her kindness, her unfaltering love. Wei Wuxian could tease and coax anyone into laughing until they forgot why they were crying. He’s never been any use at either of those. “Go check the barrier arrays still hold,” he says. “Take Gao Yang and Sun Hai and repair any weak points.” Hesitating a moment, Bujue’s eyes scan his face before he lifts his sleeve to scrub at his nose. He folds his hands together and salutes quickly. “Yes, zongzhu,” he agrees. “I’ll go at once.” Jiang Cheng nods and watches him turn and stride out of the shrine. Left alone once more, he closes his eyes and draws in a steadying breath. Gao Xiyang and Sun Luzhou were two of Wei Wuxian’s best students in talismans and arrays. They didn’t know him like Bujue and Jiang Cheng but they’d been impossibly fond of him, would share in that grief. At least it might be some comfort. He remembers distantly the anger he felt after his home burned and his family died. He remembers viscerally the jolt through his hand when he punched Wei Wuxian in the face, the scraped-raw feeling of his throat as he screamed at his brother and wailed into the rain. None of it comes to him now. He feels only tired, exhausted to his bones and newly aged. Is this what it means to be a sect leader? His father always looked so resigned, carried fatigue with him like a cane. Perhaps this is what Jiang Cheng actually inherited, more than a title or sect: the exhaustion of never quite being enough. Three days after he returns to Lotus Pier, Jin Zixuan wakes. He finds out through a Jin messenger butterfly; a-jie’s voice is so gentle as she delivers the news. “Zixuan doesn’t think a-Xian meant to hurt him,” her voice says, “but he can’t remember much at all. It doesn’t matter. There was never going to be any atonement for Wei Wuxian, and what would it matter if the world forgave him? His sentence has already been passed. The world was his judge, Jiang Cheng his executioner. There is no exoneration in a death sentence. The message goes on, lays out the truth in soft, familiar tones. “Wen-guniang has been working very hard, along with the Jin physicians, but they say there is too much scarring in his core and meridians to remove.” She doesn’t say it, but Jiang Cheng can hear the rest of that information. Jin Zixuan lives, but he will never be the radiant cultivator he was before Wen Ning punched a hand through his chest. Even if he can still wield Suihua, he will never inherit his father’s mantle as Chief Cultivator. With a weakened core, he may not even inherit the sect. Jin Guangyao has proven himself so useful since the war. A month later, he hears that Wen Qing has left for Qinghe with the Nie sect. Alone at his desk, Jiang Cheng worries at Zidian’s ring on his finger. In the days after the siege, he’d wanted to run to Carp Tower, to scoop up a-jie and a-Ling and Wen Qing and bring them all back here where he could guard them himself. He hadn’t, of course, because there was no possible way to do so without causing a diplomatic incident with at least two separate sects. Still, the desire had burned, hungry and terrified, behind his breastbone. If he could bring them here, he could keep them safe between Zidian and Wei Wuxian’s wards that still hum, steady and unfailing. They say Wen Ning has disappeared, and no Wen made it off that mountain alive. Sour spills into his mouth at the thought of a-Yuan, of a solid weight on his ankle, of that bright laughter mirroring Wei Wuxian’s. His dreams of bringing the boy here, training him the way he and Wei Wuxian were trained, now seem so distant and bitter. Maybe it’s better that Wen Qing goes to Qinghe. She’ll be safe there. As safe as anywhere else, anyway. Having her here would only hurt her, remind her of all the family he helped kill. No one hears of Lan Wangji after the siege. Jiang Cheng thinks of the broken grief in his eyes, the flash of his robes as he was thrown to the ground. Someone would have seen if he died. Someone would have said. Hanguang-jun couldn’t just disappear without the world’s notice. He tells himself he’s not worried, that whatever Lan Wangji had with Wei Wuxian, it doesn’t make him Jiang Cheng’s responsibility. He turns his back on the past and barricades himself from the old hurts. There is work to be done in Lotus Pier and more yet outside of it, the restabilizing of their whole world after the massacre in the Burial Mounds. In the months after the siege, all the sects are busied with funerals and mourning. They retreat, pull back to lick their wounds and shore up their defenses. Within Yunmeng, Jiang Cheng stretches his reach. His mother’s information network still spiderwebs through the territory and beyond, and he attunes himself to its pathways and processes. This would have been Wei Wuxian’s duty, once, but instead, he finds Bujue at his side as they sift through reports and determine priorities. Sightings of demonic cultivators pile up in a high stack until Jiang Cheng and Bujue both go out to follow them. They don’t talk much on these trips. A desperation runs through Jiang Cheng, childish in his hope. Wei Wuxian walked off death before. He’d done so many impossible things. He knows better than to believe it. It’s a child crying for his big brother to chase away a nightmare, begging for comfort that can never come. Still, they look. They find bereaved mothers trying to bring their children back to life. They find raging fiends trying to seize power over their neighbors through ghouls and curses. They find cultivators rotting out their own cores; they find mediocre people scrambling to chase dreams they thought out of their reach. Yunmeng issues a proclamation that declares demonic cultivation a capital offense and lays out the punishments risked for such practices. The other sects affirm and support the proclamation, permit Jiang Cheng greater jurisdiction along their borders. What else can they do? The majority of two generations across the world have been slaughtered by demonic cultivation first through Wen Ruohan’s war and then Wei Wuxian’s rampage. No family has been left untouched by its ravaging claws. It only makes sense that Yunmeng Jiang is taking the lead; they were, after all, the ones most injured by the ghostly path. They are the ones best suited to meting out punishment. The ones who are hurting others, killing their family or neighbors out of greed and revenge, are executed with the same swiftness as any fierce corpse. Jiang Cheng has grown used to the stench of Zidian’s burn through flesh and hair, and he no longer flinches when Sandu slides through a demonic cultivator’s guts. He doesn’t let himself notice the color of their robes, the shade of their expression as they die. The others, the few who have fallen onto this path out of desperation rather than desire — those are offered three options. First, for those who are young enough and have potential: come back to Yunmeng and accept a position within the Jiang where they can learn proper cultivation. Second, for those who are too old or lack the potential for a golden core: lay down this path and walk away back to mundane living. Third, for those who refuse either: kneel for Sandu’s kiss. It makes his stomach twist to see how many bend their knees. His hunts take him through Yunmeng, and he accepts invitations to meet with other sects at their own residences. He does not offer any to come to Lotus Pier. He has given enough, hacked away at his own soul, for them. Let them be the hosts, gracious and generous. He sees jie when he comes to Carp Tower to speak with Jin Guangshan and his ever-present shadow in the shape of Lianfeng-zun. He goes to Qinghe and Nie Huaisang only tries to get him to come out drinking once before giving up; he carefully does not hope to see Wen Qing on these trips. On the anniversary of the siege, all the great sects come together at the feet of the Burial Mounds. Together, five thousand cultivators pour their energy into the greatest summoning spell Jiang Cheng has ever heard of. Qi rushes through them, slips between them like they are the golden core in some massive chest. The lines of the array act as meridians, directing the qi until half of the Yiling countryside could be illuminated in spellwork. Surely no other spell has received such force of intention, such overwhelming spiritual energy behind it. The elders of every sect confer — or, well, the elders of every sect except Yunmeng Jiang, who no longer has elders to confer — and agree that no spirit could choose to refuse such a summons. If Wei Wuxian’s spirit lingers, still, then it would surely be dragged into the array whether he wished it or not. Jiang Cheng’s not sure what he hopes for as he takes up his position across from Lan Xichen in the central formation. No, that’s not true. He wants to see his brother. He wants, desperately, for the chance to talk to him — to apologize, to ask why, to demand answers. He doesn’t want to watch Wei Wuxian be destroyed once more. He doesn’t want to help kill him a second time. If he appears now, the other sects will set to work destroying his soul permanently. He sits and steeps in his fearful indecision all night long, and no spirit appears in the midst of their thousands. Opening his eyes to see empty space before them, Jiang Cheng swallows down the hollowing ache in his chest. Wei Wuxian’s spirit hasn’t been drug from the afterlife to be destroyed before him. No intact spirit could resist the demand of so powerful a spell. Grief wars with hope as he flies home. They drag themselves into an exhausted stalemate. He never receives an invitation to Cloud Recesses in those first three years. Some part of him stings at the silence, though he has no right to expect anything else. He’s never had any special relationship with Gusu Lan, after all. Still, his heart gives a protesting pang. Lan Xichen is only a few years his elder, became sect leader himself when his father died in the war. His brother has vanished, never seen at his side at discussion conferences. If he had allowed himself to think about it at all, Jiang Cheng might have thought they would find some camaraderie through that common ground. And if Lan Wangji is there, is recovering in the safety of his home — who better to understand, who else was there to see the ruin and waste? No invitation arrives.

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #untamed fic #my writing

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blueboxesandtrafficcones · 5 years ago

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The Nuptial Necessity - Chapter 25

A 12xRose Human AU

Despite an unglamorous job description, Rose loves the work she does with The Thistle Foundation, a charity founded by her best friend’s great-uncle. It doesn’t hurt that her boss, her friend’s father, is easy on the eyes. With a great job, wonderful friends and a loving family, life couldn’t be better – except for having someone to share it with.

All of that is threatened, though, when the great-uncle dies – and sets a strange condition for his nephew to inherit, jeopardizing the Foundation and Rose’s future, sparking a chain of events that might just get her everything she dreamed of and more.

Chapters will be posted on Saturdays and Tuesdays. Many thanks to my beta, @stupidsatsuma

Rated: Explicit, for eventual smut

@doctorroseprompts

AO3 | Masterlist

—

Tuesday, cont’d

Malcolm checked his watch once again, leg bouncing anxiously as he waited. He wasn’t an idiot; it was clear that Rose was upset, but she wouldn’t talk to him. He also knew that Sarah’s excuse to disappear into the kitchen was just that, and he was absolutely certain that the two of them were huddled somewhere out of sight, talking- probably about him.

Don’t you dare make Rose cry, he silently warned his old friend, narrowed gaze watching the hall to the toilets. The last thing he wanted was for her to be upset, especially at him. It always broke his heart to see her in tears, and he hated the idea it would be his fault.

Once the ten minute mark passed he had had enough, and throwing down his napkin, stalked across the small shop and around the corner, only to find an unexpected sight- the two women clinging to each other, sobbing with laughter, Sarah in the middle of gasping out a story he couldn’t quite make out but had Rose howling.

“What the fuck is this?”

Rather than startle them apart his bark had the opposite effect, sending them into fresh gales of laughter.

“What?”

More laughter.

“What?”

Releasing her grasp on Sarah Rose staggered forward to him, practically throwing herself in his arms. “Oh, I love her,” she wheezed, sagging against him. “We should have her over for dinner.”

What? “Sure, if you want,” he said uncertainly, entirely lost on how they’d gotten to this point. “What happened?”

“She- and I- so we- and then- oh, you had to be there,” Rose sighed, nestling her head against his chest. “Did you really pose nude for an art class?”

“I needed the money,” he defended himself automatically, wrapping his arms around her and glaring over her head at Sarah, who was watching them with a smirk. “What have you been telling her?”

“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” his old friend promised, raising her hands as if in defense. “Things she needs to know.”

Malcolm harrumphed at that, entirely certain their definitions would be wildly different, hers far more embarrassing for him. “It’s all lies,” he peered down at Rose. “Don’t believe a word.”

She grinned up at him, licking her lips. “You know,” she whispered, “I did study art history in uni, and toyed with being an artist myself. It seems only fair that you pose nude for me.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, he tilted his head in thought. “I’ve done some sketches myself, so I’ll make you a deal- you pose for me, I’ll pose for you.”

“Deal,” she didn’t hesitate. “Oooh, don’t you have a really old car? Other than Bessie, I mean?”

“We have a 1953 Rolls Royce?”

Her lips curled up. “You know that scene in Titanic?”

He shivered in delight at the idea, already able to see it playing out in delicious ways. “Fuck yes.”

And just like that, things between them were fine.

Soon enough they were on their way, with tentative plans for Sarah Jane to join them for dinner on Thursday. Malcolm drove once again, but slower this time, and Rose was all too happy to put her hand in his when he offered it.

“I’m sorry about Sarah,” he said somewhat tentatively. “If she hurt you, or embarrassed you.”

Having been watching the water on their left, she had to turn her head to face him. “It’s okay,” she decided after a moment of consideration. “Yes, in the beginning, it was a bit weird, and I felt left out, but… in the end she was lovely.” She debated silently about telling him what Sarah Jane had said in regards to Wallace’s ‘plans’, but settled against it. She could always tell him later, and things just felt too fragile at the moment. If it wasn’t love for him, she didn’t want to tip her hand – if all he wanted was a bit of fun, to lean into the ‘honeymooners’ idea, well… that was fine. She’d take what she could get, enjoy the here and now, and worry about the future later.

Malcolm squeezed her hand, raising it to his mouth and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It was nice to catch up with her, but that’s no excuse for ignoring you. Thank you for being so understanding.”

“I was just surprised,” she turned further into him, taking advantage of the bench seat to curl into his side. “And a little put off by her thinking I was Clara.”

He opened and closed his mouth several times before settling for a shrug. “There’s too many possible answers to that that would now be weird to say after last night,” he admitted. “I’m going to leave it alone, but I want you to know I had good comebacks.”

Rose glanced out the windshield, noting they were on a relatively straight patch at the moment with no cars to be seen. Taking a chance, she moved closer and purred in his ear, “I’m sure you’d have given it to me good.” To highlight her point, she caught his earlobe gently between her teeth, free hand settling on his lap.

“Holy fuck,” Malcolm gasped, veering sharply in response before getting the car back under control. By the time he had she was back on her side of the bench, sitting prim and proper and innocent as could be. “What was that?!”

She just laughed, leaning back against the seat and stretching her legs out in front of her.

Malcolm pulled into the driveway faster than necessary, tires squealing slightly as he braked and threw it into park. Practically jumping out of the car he moved around to Rose’s door to open it for her, helping her down a bit more brusquely than wise- but her half-laugh half-gasp of his name told him he was forgiven. Leaving the keys in the ignition for the footman to deal with, he hurried her into the house, ignoring her giggled protests.

“What’s the rush?” she laughed, as he guided her expertly through the house, calling on half-forgotten knowledge from misspent summers long past. “Malcolm.”

“In here.” Here was a small broom closet under the stairs, just barely big enough for them to stand up in, provided they stayed close. He backed her against the door, leaning down to hover his lips over hers. “Rose.”

“Malcolm.”

“Say yes,” he breathed, one hand skimming down her waist to her knee, applying a light pressure there in encouragement. “Oh, fuck, please say yes.”

She giggled, leaning back against the door, moving her feet apart before raising her knee to hook over his hip. “We’ll have to be quiet.”

He moved with her, pressing himself against her and groaning, burying his face in her neck to lay wet kisses there. “That’s not a yes.” He wanted her, desperately, but more than that he wanted her to want him.

“Ah.” Rose wrapped her arms around him, bumping her hips up against him once, twice, three times, drawing a wretched moan from him. “Well, then- yes.”

Biting her lip, Rose shifted on the couch, rubbing her thighs together. She’d finally reached the part in her romance novel where the heroine gave into her desire for the love interest, and it was exceptionally steamy, especially after her own encounter that afternoon in the hall closet.

“Alright?” Malcolm asked, and she peeked over the top of the book to find him watching her.

“Mhmm.” Putting her book aside, she sat up and turned, sitting flush next to him, hip to hip. “What’cha doing?”

He gestured down towards the papers scattered on the table. “Reviewing the paperwork still. This is about the rents- I don’t want to bore you.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He raised his eyebrow, looking at her skeptically. “You want to hear about rent and tenants?”

“You said I would be handling some of the management stuff as Lady Gallifrey,” she reminded him. “I should know about it- I want to know about it. I want you to teach me.”

“It’s not the most interesting thing in the world.”

She nudged him with her shoulder, grinning. “Yeah, but it’s funny- many things are infinitely more interesting when told in a sexy Scottish accent.”

“You think my accent’s sexy?” He sounded genuinely surprised, and she laughed out loud.

“I think everything’s sexy about you – including your accent. Body. Mind. Now come on, teach me.”

“Alright.” Not looking convinced of her interest, he nonetheless played along, rifling through his paperwork for a moment before pulling out a piece of paper that looked like a summary. “So, here’s how this works. The property’s about four thousand acres-”

Taking the time to pamper herself before bed, it was the first time Rose really had by herself to consider everything that had happened over the past few days. From successfully seducing Malcolm on Saturday, arriving in Scotland on Sunday, yesterday’s horseback riding and “riding lessons”, to this afternoon’s outing… it had been a virtual whirlwind, and as the dust metaphorically settled around her as she washed her hair, she found herself standing in a fog, uncertain of the safest path ahead.

That wasn’t strictly true – the safest path ahead was to have her things moved to the other room, stop shagging Malcolm, and wait for the five years to pass.

That wasn’t what she wanted, though.

Okay, what’s relatively safe but let’s us keep having sex?

If she were honest with herself, she wanted it all. A real marriage, filled with love and laughter and happiness and babies (and sex). And she wanted it with Malcolm – only Malcolm. The only problem was, she had no idea what he wanted, and what she might have to sacrifice for them to find a happy compromise. Realistically, though, she knew what she would be willing to give up – children. It would hurt, and she would have to live vicariously through Clara, but that was something she’d rather not have with him than have with someone else.

At the end of the day, it came down to love – did he love her as she did him? She couldn’t tell, and he hadn’t said. He acted like he did, but that had all started after the Gala, and she couldn’t be certain it wasn’t a function of their bedroom activities. Did the new intimacy between them free him to show her how he felt, or was he acting that way to keep her in his bed?

She had no idea.

As soon as she was dry she reached for her mobile, texting Clara I need to talk to you. Picking up the blow dryer, she was almost finished by the time she got a response, but it wasn’t what she wanted.

We’re doing an overnight field trip in a museum, I can’t get away. Is tomorrow afternoon okay?

Shit. Biting her lip, Rose shrugged. What harm could one more night do? she thought pessimistically. At least if she didn’t confront him, she couldn’t be rejected, and the sex was incredible. Fine, she replied, let me know the second you’re free.

Once she was ready except for her pajamas, she examined her options with her hands on her hips. She’d brought two sets in, unable to choose, and all of her ruminating hadn’t helped a lick. One was a simple cotton nightgown, the same from the night before that he’d seemed to like well enough, while the other was overtly sexy, a red satin lined with lace that screamed fuck me – she’d bought it on sale a few days after Valentine’s Day, after all.

“Rose? Everything okay?” Malcolm knocked on the door, startling her. “You’re not upset about Sarah, are you?”

“No, I’m okay,” she called back. “Just a moment.”

Closing her eyes she reached forward, fingers closing around fabric – satin.

Alright, then.

Pulling it on over her head and smoothing it down, she had to admit she did look good in it. Skipping the matching knickers, she pulled on the robe that went with it instead, tying it tightly before picking up her discarded options and returning to the bedroom.

“So, Jack arranged for us to go to the distillery tomorrow,” Malcolm said as soon as she opened the door.

“That sounds nice,” she replied, dumping her armful of clothes on top of the dresser to deal with tomorrow. “Do we get a sample?”

He started to laugh, stopping abruptly when she pulled off the dressing gown and climbed into bed. “Uh, yep,” he swallowed hard, eyes firmly south of hers. “Of course. Samples… samples are good.” His gaze slowly rose to meet her own, and he looked delightfully punch-drunk at the sight of her. “Tired?”

She slid down on the mattress, turning to face him and propping herself up on her elbow. “Nope,” she popped the p, grinning. “Not yet. Got any suggestions of things to do that’ll tire me out?”

She shrieked with laughter when he pounced on her just as she’d hoped, fingers digging into her sides as he started a tickle war.

It was fair to say by the end, they’d both won.

Several times.

#bbatcfic #ficandchips #Doctor Who #doctorroseprompts #Human!12xRose #Human!Twelfth Doctor #Rose Tyler #Human AU #AU #The Nuptial Necessity

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javistg · 5 years ago

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One Victor. CH 19. P1.

Chapter 19 is almost done! Seriously, I have to write one more scene and edit stuff a bit, but I’m mostly done. So, I decided to share this snippet with you.

If you want to find the rest of this fic, go HERE.

As usual, all this is unbetaed and still subject to change. Hope you enjoy. Tell me what you think.

One Victor. CH 19. P1.

“So, what do you think? Is this OK?” Peeta slid the open book across the table so that Katniss could see his work.

“It’s perfect,” Katniss said, running her fingers along the edge of the book so as not to smudge Peeta’s artwork. The bunch of yellow flowers was so lifelike she could almost smell them. “I’ll add the information tomorrow, once the ink is dry.”

Peeta looked at the clock on his kitchen wall. It was 6:45. “You better get going, the alarm’s about to ring.”

Katniss sighed. Tired. Annoyed. It was the same thing every day: wake up, go to school, check up on Prim, go to Victors’ Village, rush before curfew, put dinner on the table, do homework, go to sleep, start again.

Life in District 12 had never been particularly exciting, but Katniss Everdeen had never lived within the confines of her district. She couldn’t even remember a time when the woods weren’t a part of her life. She had grown to rely on them for nourishment and needed them to bring peace and contentment to her soul.

Sadly, Peacekeeper Thread’s hold on the district was tighter than ever and —with everyone walking in a straight line— Katniss’s days of roaming through the woods and stalking prey had become a thing of the past.

Luckily, thanks to her arrangement with Peeta, the lockdown didn’t mean empty cupboards and hunger. With the food she received, Katniss and her family could now enjoy the kind of peace that came from knowing where their next meal would come from; a sense of ease she hadn’t experienced since before her father’s death.

Of course, she didn’t miss the constant worry of having to provide for her family —or the terror of going back empty-handed after a long day out in the woods— but she still missed the thrill of doing what most wouldn’t. The sound of the forest moving around her; the smell of the trees; the soft brush of the mountain air caressing her cheeks; the feel of her father’s bow between her fingers; the pride that came from landing that one perfect shot.

She still went by the fence every day —like a stubborn criminal returning to the scene of the crime— and every day, she was met with the buzz of electricity coursing through the wire.

Sometimes she didn’t know what was worse, confirming the woods were still out of limits or knowing that —after her last adventure— she might not even have the guts to sneak out ever again.

Even as her days blended together in a monotonous repetition, Katniss still enjoyed a few things. Helping Peeta out in the greenhouse remained one of her favorite activities —just the thought of the small glass building thriving in spite of its surroundings made her smile-- but, lately, there was something else she liked even more.

The day after her little adventure in the woods, Katniss had shown up at Peeta’s back door with a shy smile on her lips and a sort of peace offering in her hunting bag.

She couldn’t explain why she felt so rotten for having put him through the entire ordeal, but Katniss knew he had been worried, and she hoped her small token would help make up for his troubles.

Peeta’s mouth dropped open as soon as she produced her family’s plant book, leaving it on his kitchen table with an almost theatrical flourish.

“Would you still like to work on it?” she asked, her voice tight with anxiety. She wanted Peeta to say yes so badly, her heart ached.

They had both mentioned the project in passing a few times, but her misunderstanding with Gale had made her weary, and the idea of misreading Peeta’s intentions scared her so much that she hadn’t followed through yet, somehow convinced that he had only offered his help to be polite.

With the gentlest of touches, Peeta ran his fingers over the cover. “I do, but only if it’s OK with you.”

“It is,” Katniss assured him.

Peeta pulled out a chair and sat down.

Katniss pushed the book in his direction and took a seat; watching as he opened it and began peering through the entries.

“Where should we start?” he asked, smiling like a boy who’s just received the best birthday present ever.

They worked on the book practically every day. They always left it for last. After tending to Peeta’s vegetable and herb garden, and prepping and storing the food for later use, they went into his kitchen and sat down to work.

Unlike the hours they spent in the greenhouse, --where Peeta chatted about the most random topics, usually making her laugh and pulling her into conversation— the time they spent with the book was one of silent reflection. Once they settled on the plant they were recording, no words were needed. Katniss didn’t understand why sitting like that, immersed in the comfortable calm they shared, thrilled her so but, as days went by, she found herself yearning for those stolen moments almost as much as she longed for her time in the woods.

In the soft light of impending dusk, she followed Peeta’s hands as he worked, making a blank page bloom with strokes of ink, adding touches of color to her previously black and yellowish book.

Sometimes, while Peeta diligently made sketches on scraps of paper trying to get every detail right, Katniss’s mind wondered.

Three weeks had gone by since she had found Bonnie and Twill by her father’s lake and, in that time, no one had mentioned them again.

She wasn’t surprised by Peeta’s silence. As a victor, he was probably privy to information she couldn’t even begin to imagine —information he wasn’t at liberty to disclose.

She had never given much thought to these things before, but learning that Peeta carried a signal scrambler in his pocket —and had another one installed on the kitchen wall; she was now convinced that the green blinking light over his stove couldn’t be anything else— had made her realize that the blue-eyed victor with the winning smile had some secrets to keep.

But Peeta wasn’t the only person who knew about the escapees and, after years of hearing her hunting partner’s rants against the Capitol, Gale’s silence on the matter unnerved her. Why was it that, in the face of real change —actual rebellion— Gale had suddenly become tight-lipped?

Had Thread’s measures tempered his spirits or was Gale still fighting —secretly scheming with those discontents he had mentioned in New Years’? If so, had he approached Peeta?

The first option saddened her —she hated the idea of her friend’s spirit being crushed under Thread’s boots— but it was something she could understand. A lot of miners had been arrested recently. Ending up in the peacekeepers’ cells was no joke. Katniss wouldn’t have blamed Gale for walking away from his ideals when his family’s safety was on the line.

But the second… the second scared her so much she pushed it out of her mind almost at once.

Days trickled by. Katniss went to school, checked up on Prim, worked in Peeta’s greenhouse, wrote in her family’s plant book, and kept her theories and questions to herself.

Deep down, she didn’t mind, holding on to her routine soothed her and, really, it wasn’t as though she had much to say. When it came to politics, Katniss had learned from an early age to steer clear of trouble. Even as a small girl, she had understood the importance of watching what she said, always fearful —like her mother had been— that Prim might repeat her words and get in trouble.

After all, Katniss had spent years ignoring Gale’s heated rants when they went out to the woods, not because she didn’t agree with him, but because she didn’t see the point of attracting unwanted attention when she had a family who depended on her.

But things were different now, something big was happening in Panem —something most people had only ever dreamed of— and, with her days blending together with tedious dullness, Katniss was growing curious. She was also growing anxious.

As thrilling as news of an uprising had been, hearing what the Peacekeepers had done in Eight sobered her. Thread and his men had already done plenty in Twelve —and that was without provocation— what would happen if things got out of hand? President Snow would show no mercy. He wouldn’t think twice before killing off another district --same as he had Thirteen. Even if it was only to make an example of it.

District 12 was small and weak, and it didn’t develop nuclear weapons. It would take every person in the district to stand up to the Capitol for anything to really happen, and that would never be.

She hated admitting it, but Gale was right. The tesserae system, the lack of job opportunities for people from the Seam, the way merchant businesses were passed down from one generation to another. More than the Games, these were the things that kept the people in Twelve pitted against each other; the things that made it impossible for a rebellion to succeed.

With all these thoughts pressing down on her, Katniss couldn’t stop being cautious —couldn’t forget that she had a lot to lose. Curiosity wouldn’t put food on her table —and it certainly wouldn’t keep Prim safe— so, Katniss bit her lip and did what she had always done: kept her thoughts and theories to herself.

Still, when she was at home, all the silence and prudence in the world didn’t stop her from paying attention whenever she watched TV. Every night, she sat in her living room and waited for Bonnie and Twill’s elusive mockingjay to show up on the corner of her screen. It never did, but that was hardly surprising, District 13 wasn’t the kind of topic that came up in the daily news.

Her repeated failure to put the matter to rest frustrated her, but there was nothing she could do. She had a full, busy life. She didn’t have time to sit around and wait for a random story to pop up on her screen.

XXXXX

Peeta stood up and stretched his back. He hadn’t been painting for long, but the chairs in his kitchen weren’t that comfortable, and he was tired. The long, sleepless nights of late were finally catching up to him.

A few steps away, Katniss began gathering her things. Now that winter had begun to withdraw, she had cast her old coat aside and gone back to wearing her father’s old hunting jacket. The leather garment was a couple sizes too big for her slight frame, but Peeta suspected she liked wearing it because it reminded her of her dad. Whatever her reasons, he welcomed the change. It made her seem happier, she looked a lot more like her usual self.

Wanting to keep Katniss around just a few minutes longer, Peeta asked, “Would you mind giving me a hand before you leave?”

“Sure, what do you need?”

Peeta pointed to a couple of wooden crates on his counter. “Could you help me carry one over to Haymitch’s?”

Reaching the counter, Katniss slid her hands under one of the crates and pulled it into her arms. “Lead the way.”

XXXXX

Haymitch’s house was worse than a pigsty. Mouse droppings, piles of unwashed clothes, and discarded wrappings littered the hallway.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust at the revolting stench of liquor, vomit, and burned meat that hung in the air, Katniss followed Peeta through the long entrance corridor and into the kitchen.

Alerted by the sound of visitors, Haymitch quietly slipped into the room.

At the sight of the victor, Katniss tightened her hold on her crate and shuffled back a couple of steps. She had seen Haymitch hundreds of times before, usually skulking around the Hob, but she’d never been close enough to smell him.

Surprise quickly gave way to disgust.

Maybe it was because she had grown used to Peeta, who was stylish and handsome, and every bit what a victor was supposed to be, but she couldn’t quite believe that the paunchy, middle-aged man with greasy black hair and gray Seam eyes who stood across from her had once won the Hunger Games.

Unperturbed by Katniss’s presence, Haymitch pointed a half-empty liquor bottle in Peeta’s general direction. “Hey, Kid,” he slurred. “Whatcha got there?”

Peeta looked down at the jars and containers he carried. “The usual.”

Eager to get back out to the fresh air, Katniss looked around trying to find an empty space for her crate. Every surface seemed to be covered in empty bottles and dirty plates. “Where can I—,”

Haymitch waved his bottle in the air. “Just leave that on the table, Sweetheart.”

The jars in Peeta’s crate rattled as dropped it on the counter. “Don’t call her that,” he growled.

Startled by the anger in Peeta’s voice, Katniss stiffened. She had never heard him speak so forcefully before.

Seemingly undisturbed by Peeta’s outburst, Haymitch shrugged. Pointing his chin at Katniss, he asked, “How old are you, girl?”

Annoyed to be under Haymitch’s scrutiny, Katniss pulled her shoulders back. “I’ll be seventeen in May.”

“Ah!” Haymitch raised his liquor bottle as if in triumph. Looking back at Peeta, he added, “Don’t worry, Boy, I’ll learn her name when she’s 18.”

Peeta’s lips turned white as he pressed them together to bite back a retort. Looking away from his mentor, he went to the kitchen table and began to move the dirty dishes out of the way so that Katniss could deposit her box.

“This place is a mess,” she grumbled, too nauseated by her surroundings to be polite. “Have you ever considered getting a housekeeper?”

Amused by Katniss’s discomfort, Haymitch tilted his head to one side. “What? You angling for a job, Sweetheart?”

“Ew, no!” Katniss shook her head in disgust. It wasn’t a bad offer, even with all the filth, but she still had two more years of school ahead of her. “I don’t have that kind of time. You need someone who can come here every day.”

A wide smile broke on Haymitch’s face, and he started laughing. “You hear this, Boy?”

Peeta nodded, his previous bad mood forgotten, replaced by a bright smile. “I think she’s right, you know? You could use someone.” He turned to Katniss. “Do you know anyone who might be interested?”

It only took her a second to find an answer. “I do,” she said, adding an enthusiastic nod for emphasis. “I think Hazelle would be perfect for the job.”

“Hazelle?” Peeta shook his head, the name unfamiliar.

“Gale’s mother,” Katniss explained. “She washes clothes for a living, but she hasn’t had much work lately —what with the shortages, and all— I’m sure she wouldn’t mind leaving that for something more steady.”

“Could you tell her to come over tomorrow?” Peeta asked.

“Yeah. I’ll stop by in the morning before school.”

“Hey, I’m still standing here!” Haymitch complained. “Don’t I have a say?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get your say,” Peeta said, already moving to show Katniss the exit. He didn’t want to keep her any longer. This had taken longer than he expected, and the curfew alarm was about to ring. “But it won’t hurt to have her come by and take a look.”

“It won’t hurt you, you mean,” Haymitch yelled back.

“Is he always like this?” Katniss whispered once they had reached the front door.

Peeta shrugged. Haymitch was more of an acquired taste, he couldn’t expect her to understand.

XXXXX

Katniss had just reached the wrought iron gates of Victors’ Village when Peeta stepped back into Haymitch’s home.

The old victor was busy rummaging through the contents of the crate Katniss had left on his table. “So, you know any of these people?”

Peeta leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Yeah, I know Gale. He’s alright.”

Haymitch pulled a big round jar out of the box and smacked his lips in appreciation. He loved pickled cabbage. Cradling the jar against his chest, he fixed Peeta with the most solemn look he could muster. “Alright, alright?”

Peeta nodded. “This is a good idea, Haymitch.”

With a grunt, Haymitch twisted the jar open. After dropping the lid on the table, he turned to look for a fork. “OK. Set it up, then.”

#one victor #sneak peek #victor!Peeta #catching fire AU

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pinesconessecrets · 6 years ago

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Pinescone Secret Santa

AN:

Pinescone Secret Santa for @oakwoodouroboros-fics-and-art on tumblr!

Takes place after Gravity Falls. Wirt and Greg have gone up to Gravity Falls with Dipper and his family, and while everyone else is out, Dipper and Wirt decide to do a little hiking on their own.

Wirt wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was winter up in Gravity Falls, and he and his brother were spending their holiday vacation with the Pines family. Everyone else was out of the Shack visiting with friends, and Dipper had wanted to take Wirt on a hike through the woods. It was pretty cold for a hike, and Wirt could take or leave the forest, given some of his past experiences. But Dipper’s eyes had shone with excitement, and he was so eager to show Wirt his favorite bits of Gravity Falls weirdness, that Wirt couldn’t help but say yes. So they’d bundled up in sweaters and gloves, packed some food, and set off into the forest.

That was five hours ago.

Wirt took off his gloves. Hiking had made him way too hot, and his feet were aching. “Dipper, if we are lost in the woods again…”

“We’re not lost!”

“We’ve been hiking for hours. In circles. See that tree?” He pointed. “That’s from twenty minutes ago. When I lost my sanity.”

Dipper stopped and looked around. They’d reached a small, flat clearing, still carpeted with grass even with the approaching winter. “Well…I guess this is as good a place as any to –”

Wirt dropped his backpack with a thud and collapsed to the ground.

“– stop. Er…yeah.”

Wirt rolled over onto his back and let his arms flop out to the sides. “I feel a sudden and profound kinship with Sisyphus, pushing his boulder time and again to the top of the hill, just as we circle endlessly in this eternal forest. I am weary in my very soul.”

Dipper cracked a grin. “Sorry, Wirt.”

Wirt waved a hand and then let it drop back to the grass with a sigh, closing his eyes. The chilled ground felt great through his sweater. Not to mention that his feet and legs were practically creaking with relief at the opportunity to rest. It sort of reminded him of when he and Greg slept in the woods in the unknown. Right now Greg was off doing who-knew-what with Dipper’s sister, Mabel. He wondered if Greg was as tired as Wirt felt right now.

There came a scratching noise.

He cracked an eye open. Dipper was scribbling furiously in his journal.

“Oh, please tell me there’s not some magic bug thing in my hair.”

“Hang on one second, don’t move.”

Wirt swallowed. “There is, isn’t there? Oh man, if my hair turns blue like last time I –”

“Tada!”

Dipper held up his journal. He’d drawn a sketch of Wirt laying in the clearing, completely relaxed in the downy grass, an expression of perfect peace on his face.

Wirt blushed. “That is so unfairly cute.”

“Yes, you are!” Dipper said cheerfully, snapping the book shut. “I’ve gotta make a record of every amazing thing I see. And that includes a certain future Poet Laureate.”

“Don’t forget his muse, with the blessing of the heavens on his brow and the map to my heart in his hands.”

“Oh now who’s being unfairly cute?”

Dipper grinned and lay down on the grass next to Wirt, his head pillowed on Wirt’s arm. Wirt scooted him closer and turned, so Dipper’s hair brushed against his cheek like butterfly wings. Dipper drew one arm around Wirt and they lay there, just breathing, the quiet noises of the forest drifting over them, the cool air kissing their cheeks. He was already cooling off, but Dipper’s body radiated warmth and comfort. He sighed deeply. Maybe hiking for hours wasn’t so bad after all.

Suddenly Dipper’s radio crackled with static.

“Dipper? Are you there?”

Dipper groaned and reached for the radio. “Yeah, Mabel, I’m here.”

“You’re back home by now, right?”

“No, but we’re close.” Wirt swatted him playfully and Dipper smothered a laugh. “Sort of close. Why?”

“So HAHA FUNNY STORY! You know that magic weather druid-rock we found last Spring and weren’t supposed to touch?”

“You didn’t.”

A shadow fell over them and they looked up. A massive wall of clouds was slowly moving across the sky, dark and foreboding. The air temperature started dropping so fast the hairs on Wirt’s arms stood straight up.

There was a buzz of static. “– to show Grunkle Ford!” Mabel said. “We’re all up at the Manor, so we’re inside and we’re safe – Greg too – only we might have caused a –” A burst of static cut her off. The storm was so vast and heavy Wirt’s ears actually popped from the pressure, and he could feel the weight of it on his chest. Thunder boomed and the clouds unleashed a blinding fury of snow and ice.

“BLIZZARD!”

They jumped to their feet and ran. Wind struck their backs and thin shards of ice cut at their hands and faces. And they were just at the edge of it!

“Dipper! Where’s the Shack?!”

“Dead ahead, I think!”

“You think?!” Wirt yelled. “This is it! We’re gonna get caught in a snowstorm and freeze to death!”

“Less talking, more AAH!”

They braked hard as a tree in front of them gave a mighty CRACK and one of the upper limbs began to fall. Dipper slammed into Wirt’s side, knocking them to the right. He hit the ground with a thud and heard Dipper give a sharp cry.

“Dipper!”

“I’m fine!”

He wiggled out from the edge of the branch, his backpack slung on his arm. Wirt pulled him out the rest of the way, squinting as snowflakes sliced at his eyes and face. The snow was thickening and the wind was now so strong Wirt was crouching to keep from being swept away.

“THE SHACK!” he yelled over the gale.

Dipper started to point and gasped, holding his arm. Wirt grabbed his boyfriend around the shoulders and ran, lengthening his stride. The wind screamed in his ear. He glanced back and saw nothing but a wall of pure white, swallowing whole trees, eating up the ground like a rabid beast. He ran faster but the storm was practically on top of them. They’d be swallowed up in seconds. His heart pounded.

Oh man oh man we’re gonna die we’re gonna –

Dipper yanked his hair and yelled. The Shack was ahead of them, slightly to the left, its dark peak already half-covered in white. He ran toward it. His legs ached and his lungs screamed and the snow drove icy fingers of death down his back –

They reached the door and Dipper hurled himself at it, forcing it open. Wirt tripped and crashed to the floor, dragging Dipper down with him. Dipper flung out a leg and kicked the door shut just as the blizzard reached the Shack, pounding furiously at the door, shaking the windows, whistling angrily from somewhere in the rafters like a very ticked-off tea kettle. The already-dark cabin slipped fully into the shadows as the windows darkened, so completely full of snow it was like someone had pressed pillows to every pane. The rafters creaked and groaned, and the shingles rattled, but the bones of the house stood firm.

For a second Wirt and Dipper lay on the floor, limbs tangled together, both of them breathing hard. Then Wirt dropped to the floor and started laughing.

“We made it!” he gasped. “I can’t believe we made it!”

Dipper went down on his elbow, half-smiling. “Yeah! Funny weather though! Oregon, am I right?”

Wirt laughed harder. It wasn’t even that funny, and at the same time he’d never heard a funnier joke in his life. The wind moaned against the wall and Wirt couldn’t catch his breath for laughing. Tears leaked out of his eyes.

“Geez, Wirt,” Dipper chuckled, raising a hand to push his damp bangs out of his eyes. Instantly his face turned white and he dropped his hand.

“Wh-what?” Wirt gasped, glancing up at Dipper. “You – okay?”

Dipper didn’t answer, just sat up with a low hiss, one arm pressing the other to his side. “I think the branch got me.”

Wirt sat up too, still breathing hard, and touched his boyfriend’s shoulder. Dipper turned obligingly.

Wirt held back a hiss of his own. The tree limb must’ve hit Dipper with its outermost branches – the ones that weren’t as heavy, but were even more flexible. It had cut across Dipper’s back like a whip, slicing a jagged line in Dipper’s sweater and leaving a nasty welt. Wirt very carefully pulled the fabric away from the skin and saw bruises already darkening along the line.

“It really stings,” Dipper said through gritted teeth. His teeth were starting to chatter, too. They were both nearly soaked from the snow, and Wirt’s socks were soggy with melted ice. He shivered.

One of his fingertips brushed Dipper’s wound and he jolted.

“S-sorry,” Wirt stammered. “Can you walk? If you g-get us dry clothes, I’ll m-m-make something to w-warm us up.”

“We should g-get these off, first,” Dipper said, motioning to their clothes. “At least our shirts and socks.”

Wirt was really freezing now, and his fingers felt like frozen fish sticks, but he grudgingly complied. When he took off his socks his feet were blue – actually blue, like a cold winter lake. But the worst part was taking off Dipper’s sweater. Wirt had to help him, and even then Dipper’s face was tight with pain.

They left their clothes by the door and stumbled down the hall together. Dipper and Mabel were staying in the attic for the summer, but the stairs might be dangerous with their lack of coordination, so they went to the study where Wirt was staying and grabbed two pairs of pants and some of his thickest sweaters. Dipper stepped into the hallway to get changed.

If Wirt thought his legs had ached before, it was nothing compared to how they felt now. They prickled and ached and were somehow weirdly hot even though he was freezing. And they seem to weigh about 200 pounds each. Changing into sweatpants left him shaking with exhaustion. When he was done he leaned heavily on the dresser, debating the merits of collapsing face-first on the floor.

Dipper knocked at the door. “Wirt?”

“Almost done.” The door looked so far away.

“Hurry. We need to start a fire and get draaagh…”

Wirt forced his legs to the door and opened it. Dipper had braced himself against the wall, holding his shoulder. He grinned weakly.

“Th-thought that’d get you.”

Wirt winced and pulled Dipper towards him, so he was leaning on Wirt instead of the wall. They moved stiffly back to the front of the Shack and into the parlor, the wind whistling bitterly in the cracks of the Shack.

Dipper’s friend (Soup? Stew?) had turned the parlor into a second living room, with two big couches that folded out into beds for the old uncle guys. It had a big rug, a coffee table, some book cases, and most importantly, a brick fire place complete with a stack of wood three feet high.

Dipper let go of Wirt and reached for the lighter and the newspaper on the coffee table. Wirt knelt on the brick and began loading log after log into the hearth.

“Easy,” Dipper said, with a small laugh. “If you pile on t-too many the f-f-fire won’t start.”

“I will never b-be warm ag-g-gain,” Wirt chattered. “Not unless we s-s-set the whole Sh-Shack on fire.”

“Let’s p-put a pin in that.”

Dipper pulled sheets of paper from the newspaper and threw them on the logs, then clicked the lighter. Wirt forced himself to stand up, staggered over to a couch, and grabbed the thick blankets that had been piled on top. He came back and sat down, pulling the blankets around them as tight as he could without scraping Dipper’s back.

“We should really di-disinfect that,” Wirt muttered.

“Mmm.”

The storm was still pounding outside. They huddled together and sat so close to the fire their knees practically touched the metal grate. For a second Wirt wondered whether Greg was okay (haha, whether), but then he remembered Mabel had said they were all safe and sound.

A sudden breath of cold air touched Wirt’s neck and he shivered, scooting even closer to Dipper. His boyfriend dropped his head on Wirt’s shoulder with a sigh. Wirt’s eyelids drooped. The flames flickered higher, warming his numb face, making his cheeks tingle. He was so heavy, and so, so tired…

Dipper woke up slowly. His first thought was that he and Wirt had fallen asleep in the clearing, and his back sort of hurt because he’d laid down on some rocks. Then the full memory of the blizzard slammed into his brain and the pain on his back roared to life.

“Ow ow ow owwww,” he muttered. He opened his eyes.

He and Wirt had fallen asleep in front of the fire. The storm was still going outside, and the fire had burned low. But he was wrapped up in thick warm blankets, and Wirt had somehow tipped over and sprawled across Dipper’s lap like blanket, snoring and all. Dipper smiled and gently brushed Wirt’s bangs from his face.

Wirt gave a snort and opened his eyes, glancing up at Dipper.

“Are we dead?” Wirt asked. “Because all of my muscles hurt like we’re dead.”

Dipper grinned. “If we are, then we must be in heaven…because I think I see an angel.”

Wirt groaned. “Well you poetry is clearly dead…”

Dipper laughed and then winced as the skin on his back pulled. Wirt groaned and struggled to sit up, wiping at his face with his hand.

“Alright, okay, I’m awake. Can you turn so I can see your back?”

He did, letting the blanket fall away. Wirt pulled up his shirt, carefully avoiding touching it.

“Okay, well the good news is, I don’t see broken skin. The bad news is that all the skin I do see involves all the colors of the rainbow.”

“Hurts like it does,” Dipper admitted. “Honestly it’s a good thing Mabel does such good knitting, or that thing probably would’ve sliced me way worse.”

He held back a hiss when Wirt let the shirt fall down. Wirt tucked the blanket carefully around Dipper again and then leaned forward to add more wood to the fire.

“Okay,” Wirt said, standing up. “I’m going to get some ice for that –”

Dipper groaned. “Not more ice.”

“– and you are going to sit there like a good little mollusk until I get back.”

“Can you at least bring snacks?”

“Yes, but only for me.”

Dipper let out a smothered snort. Wirt moved away, yawning, and in a minute he was out of sight.

Dipper looked around. It was warm, but it was also pretty dark in here, since the only illumination was the fire. He got to his feet slowly, using the coffee table for balance. His joints popped and cracked and he suddenly had a deep sympathy for his Grunkle Stan’s arthritis. He stepped carefully to the standing lamp and flicked on the light. Instantly the whole room looked much brighter, warmer, and safer, in spite of the snow still hurling itself against the glass. He looked around again. Now if only he could find…aha! Right by Great-Uncle Ford’s sofa was a fresh pad of paper and a pen. Perfect.

When Wirt came back he had again situated himself in front of the fire, hiding what he’d done under his blanket.

“Oh good!” he said, spotting the tray in Wirt’s hands. “You brought food! You are my favorite person ever I am so hungry.”

Wirt raised an eyebrow. “You turned on the light? I told you not to get up. Now I get to eat the snacks all by myself.”

“Oh c'moooon,” Dipper groaned. He looked at Wirt with his best puppy dog eyes. “Please? I’m so hungry I’m dying…”

“Oh, fine,” Wirt mumbled, blushing bright red. “But ice pack first. Put it on your back and then hold it there by leaning against the coffee table.”

Wirt handed him the ice and Dipper complied, settling the blanket carefully around him. Wirt set down the tray and they made short work of the pretzels, Smoreos, and instant hot chocolate loaded with marshmallows.

“How long d'you think the storm’s gonna last?” Wirt said minutes, nodding toward the window, a Smoreo in his hand.

Dipper shrugged. “Probably until my Great-Uncle Ford can figure out a way to turn off the magic rock. So not long. I don’t know how long we were asleep, though, so who knows how long it’s been since it started.”

“I know.” Wirt yawned hugely. “Feels like we napped for days and I’m still tired.”

He grinned. “That’ll happen when you run like crazy from a blizzard after five hours of hiking.”

“On that note –” Wirt pointed at Dipper “I am never ever hiking with you again. I happen to like my nose on my body, not sliced off by frostbite’s ruthless cleaver.”

“Aw, c'mon! This was a one time thing!” Dipper nudged him with an elbow. “You know you were having tons of fun until the deadly blizzard!”

Wirt rolled his eyes. “Keywords in there are ‘deadly blizzard’, Dipper. Bilzzards are not my thing.“

“Fair point, fair point. Counterpoint, if you don’t hike with me, then you will be deprived of epic poetry material forever. Two dashing young heroes narrowly escaping the indomitable forces of nature? Tell methat doesn’t have ‘epic’ written all over it.”

“Weeeeeeelllll…” Wurt was trying not to smile.

Dipper grinned. “Alright, then…would this change your mind?”

He pulled Ford’s notepad from under his blanket and held it up. On it he had drawn himself and Wirt asleep in front of the fire, one of Dipper’s arms draped across Wirt’s shoulders, with Wirt pillowed in Dipper’s lap, ensconced in layers of thick fluffy blankets.

Wirt turned bright red all the way to the tips of his ears. “That is so unfairly cute.”

Dipper laughed (carefully) and patted the floor next to him, inviting Wirt to come closer. Wirt grabbed his blankets and obliged, pulling the tray closer. He grabbed the pot of hot chocolate from the tray and refilled both their cups, then settled back comfortably against the coffee table. They weren’t cold anymore, but they pressed together anyway, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. The ice was doing wonders for his back, too. He took another sip of chocolate so he wouldn’t get too cold. The steam from the mug was soft and soothing.

Suddenly Wirt shifted. “Uh, Dipper, why is there a face in the flames?”

“Hmm?” He glanced up. “Oh that’s just one of those little soot ball things. Like from that one movie with the cranky girl who does all the chores? Mabel named it Cinderfuzzyballofcutenessella, but we just call it Fuzzy.”

Wirt grumbled under his breath. “The next time I see your sister remind me keep her far, far, far away from anything paranormal.”

Dipper chuckled and snuggled closer to Wirt. The fire burned strong and bright in the hearth, the smell of chocolate filled the air, and Wirt’s whole body warmed Dipper right to his soul, filling him with peace.

He rested his head on Wirt’s shoulder and drifted back to sleep.

#pinescone #pinescone Secret Santa #PInescone Secret Santa 2018 #Wirt #Dipper Pines #Over the Garden Wall #otgw #Dipper #submission

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